Sunday, July 20-Colonel Gwynn again brought but a bad account of his companion, who was now under the care of the Cheltenham apothecary, Mr. Clerke.
I had appointed in the evening to go on the walks with Miss Palmer. I scarce ever passed so prodigious a crowd as was assembled before the house when I went out. The people of the whole county seemed gathered together to see their majesties; and so quiet, so decent, so silent, that it was only by the eye they could be discovered, though so immense a multitude. How unlike a London mob!
The king, kindly to gratify their zealous and respectful curiosity, came to his window, and seeing me go out, he called me to speak to him, and give an account of my intentions. The people, observing this graciousness, made way for me on every side, so that I passed through them with as much facility as if the meadows had been empty.
The D’Oyleys and Miss Johnson and Miss Palmer made the walking party, and Mr. Seward joined us. Mr. Raikes and all his family were come from Gloucester to see the royal family on the walks, which were very much crowded, but with the same respectful multitude, who never came forward, but gazed and admired at the most humble distance.
Mr. Raikes introduced me to the Bishop of Gloucester, Dr. Halifax, and afterwards, much more to my satisfaction, to the Dean of Gloucester, Dr. Tucker, the famous author of “Cui bono."283 I was very glad to see him: he is past eighty, and has a most shrewd and keen old face. I went afterwards to tea with the D’Oyleys and Miss Palmer, and Mr. Seward again accompanied us. Miss Palmer brought me home in Sir John’s carriage, making it drive as near as possible to the house.
But just before we quitted the walks I was run after by a quick female step:—“Miss Burney, don’t you know me? have you forgot Spotty?”—and I saw Miss Ogle. She told me she had longed to come and see me, but did not know if she might. She is here with her mother and two younger sisters. I promised to wait on them. Mrs. Oake was daughter to the late Bishop of Winchester, who was a preceptor of the king’s: I knew, therefore, I might promise with approbation.
Monday, July 21.—I was very much disappointed this morning to see Colonel Gwynn come again alone to breakfast, and to hear from him that his poor colleague was still confined.
The royal party all went at ten o’clock to Tewkesbury. About noon, while I was writing a folio letter to my dear father, of our proceedings, Mr. Alberts, the queen’s page, came into my little parlour, and said “If you are at leisure, ma’am, Mr. Fairly begs leave to ask you how you do.”
I was all amazement, for I had concluded his confinement irremediable for the present. I was quite happy to receive him; he looked very ill, and his face is still violently swelled. He had a handkerchief held to it, and was muffled up in a great coat; and indeed he seemed unfit enough for coming out.
He apologised for interrupting me. I assured him I should have ample time for my letter.
“What a letter!” cried he, looking at its size, “it is just such a one as I should like to receive, and not—”
“Read,” cried I.
“No, no!—and not answer!”
He then sat down, and I saw by his manner he came with design to make a sociable visit to me. He was serious almost to sadness, but with a gentleness that could not but raise in whomsoever he had addressed an implicit sympathy. He led almost immediately to those subjects on which he loves to dwell—Death and Immortality, and the assured misery of all stations and all seasons in this vain and restless world.
I ventured not to contradict him with my happier sentiments, lest I should awaken some fresh pain. I heard him, therefore, in quiet and meditative silence, or made but such general answers as could hazard no allusions. Yet, should I ever see him in better spirits, I shall not scruple to discuss, in such a way as I can, this point, and to vindicate as well as I am able my opposite opinion.
He told me he had heard a fifth week was to be now added to this excursion, and he confessed a most anxious solicitude to be gone before that time. He dropped something, unexplained, yet very striking, of a peculiar wish to be away ere some approaching period.
I felt his meaning, though I had no key to it; I felt that he coveted to spend in quiet the anniversary of the day on which he lost his lady. You may believe I could say nothing to it; the idea was too tender for discussion; nor can I divine whether or not he wishes to open more on this subject, or is better pleased by my constant silence to his own allusions. I know not, indeed, whether he thinks I even understand them.
We then talked over Cheltenham and our way of life, and then ran into discourse upon Courts and Court life in general. I frankly said I liked them not, and that, if I had the direction of any young person’s destination, I would never risk them into such a mode of living; for, though Vices may be as well avoided there as anywhere ‘and in this Court particularly, there were mischiefs of a smaller kind, extremely pernicious to all nobleness of character, to which this Court, with all its really bright examples, was as liable as any other,—the mischiefs of jealousy, narrowness, and selfishness.
He did not see, he said, when there was a place of settled income and appropriated business why it might not be filled both with integrity and content in a Court as well as elsewhere. Ambition, the desire of rising, those, he said, were the motives that envy which set such little passions in motion. One situation, however, there was, he said, which he looked upon as truly dangerous, and as almost certain to pervert the fairest disposition—it was one in which he would not place any person for whom he had the smallest regard, as he looked upon it to be the greatest hazard a character could run. This was, being maid of honour.
Tuesday, July 22-To-day, at noon, I had a surprise with which I was very well pleased. His majesty opened the door of my little parlour, called out, “Come, Come in-,” and was followed by Major Price. He was just arrived from his little farm in Herefordshire, and will stay here some days. It is particularly fortunate just now, when another gentleman was really required to assist in attendance upon the royal party.
Mr. Seward, with a good-humoured note, sent me the magazine with Baretti’s strictures on Mrs. Thrale. Good heaven, how abusive! It can hardly hurt her—it is so palpably meant to do it. I could not have suspected him, with all his violence, of a bitterness of invective so cruel, so ferocious!
I well remember his saying to me, when first I saw him after the discovery of “Evelina”.... “I see what it is you can do, you little witch—it is, that you can hang us all up for laughing-stocks; but hear me this one thing—don’t meddle with me. I see what they are, your powers; but remember, when you provoke an Italian you run a dagger into your own breast!”
I half shuddered at the fearful caution from him, because the dagger was a word of unfortunate recollection:284 but, good heaven! it could only be a half Shudder when the caution was against an offence I could sooner die than commit, and which, I may truly say, if personal attack was what he meant, never even in sport entered my mind, and was ever, in earnest, a thing I have held in the deepest abhorrence.
I must do, however, the justice to his candour to add, that upon a newer acquaintance with me, which immediately followed, he never repeated his admonition; and when “Cecilia” came out, and he hastened to me with every species of extravagant encomium, he never hinted at any similar idea, and it seemed evident he concluded me, by that time, incapable meriting such a suspicion; though, to judge by his own conduct, a proceeding of this sort may to him appear in a very different light. He thinks, at least, a spirit of revenge may authorize any attack, any insult. How unhappy and how strange! to join to so much real good nature as this man possesses when pleased, a disposition so savagely vindictive when offended.
Thursday, July 24—“Pray, Miss Burney,” cried Colonel Gwynn, “do you think Mr. Fairly will ever marry again?”
“I think it very doubtful,” I answered, “but I hope he will, for, whether he is happy or not in marrying, I am sure he will be wretched in singleness; the whole turn of his mind is so social and domestic. He is by no means formed for going always abroad for the relief of society; he requires it more at hand.”
“And what do you think of Miss Fuzilier?”
“That he is wholly disengaged with her and with everybody.”
“Well, I think it will be, for I know they correspond; and what should he correspond with her for else?”
“Because, I suppose, he has done it long before this could be suggested as the motive. And, indeed, the very quickness of the report makes me discredit it; ’tis so utterly impossible for a man whose feelings are so delicate to have taken any steps towards a second connexion at so early a period.”
“Why, I know he’s very romantic,—but I should like to know your opinion.”
“I have given it you,” cried I, “very exactly.”
Not long after, when all the party was broke up from my little parlour, though not yet set out for Gloucester, who should again surprise me by entering but Mr. Fairly! I was quite rejoiced by his sight. He was better, though not well. His face is almost reduced to its natural size. He had a letter for her majesty from Lord Aylesbury, and had determined to venture bringing it himself.
He said he would carry it in to the queen, and then return to my parlour, if I would give him some breakfast.
You may suppose I answered “No!” But, afterwards, fearing he might be detained and fatigued, he asked me to present it for him, and only say he was waiting in my room for commands. I was forced to say “Yes,” though I had rather not.
Her majesty was much surprised to hear he was again out so unexpectedly, and asked if he thought of going to Gloucester?
“No,” I said, “I believed he was not equal to that.”
She bid me tell him she would see him before she went.
I returned with this message, and would then have ordered him fresh breakfast; but he declared if I was fidgety he should have no comfort, and insisted on my sitting quietly down, while he drew a chair by my side, and made his own cold tea, and drank it weak and vapid, and eat up all the miserable scraps, without suffering me to call for plate, knife, bread, butter, or anything for replenishment. And when he had done, and I would have made some apology, he affected me for him a good deal by gravely saying, “Believe me, this is the pleasantest breakfast I have made these six days.”
He then went on speaking of his late confinement, and its comfortless circumstances, in very strong terms, dwelling on its solitude and its uselessness, as if those only formed its disagreeability, and the pain went for nothing. Social and kind is his heart, and finely touched to the most exquisite sensations of sympathy; and, as I told Colonel Gwynn, I must needs wish he may yet find some second gentle partner fitted to alleviate his sorrows, by giving to him an object whose happiness would become his first study.
He brought me back the few books I had procured him but I had no fresh supply. He spoke again of the favourite “Letters,” and said he felt so sure I should be pleased with them, that he was desirous I should look at them, adding, “There is no person into whose hands I would not put them not even my daughter’s.”
It was now impossible to avoid saying I should be glad to see them: it would seem else to doubt either his taste or his delicacy, while I have the highest opinion of both. In talking them over he told me he believed them to be genuine; “But the woman,” he said, “throughout the whole correspondence, is too much the superior. She leaves the man far behind. She is so collected, so composed, so constantly mistress of herself, so unbiased by her passions, so rational, and so dignified, that I would even recommend her as an example to any young woman in similar circumstances to follow." He was summoned to her majesty, in the dining-parlour. But when they were all set out on the Gloucester expedition, he returned to my little parlour, and stayed with me a considerable time.
Grave he came back—grave quite to solemnity, and almost wholly immersed in deep and sad reflections, He spoke little, and that little with a voice so melancholy, yet so gentle, that it filled me with commiseration.
At length, after much silence and many pauses, which I never attempted to interrupt or to dissipate, continuing my work as if not heeding him, he led himself distantly, yet intelligibly—to open upon the immediate state of his mind.
I now found that the king’s staying on at Cheltenham a fifth week was scarcely supportable to him; that the 16th of next month was the mournful anniversary of his loss, and that he had planned to dedicate it in some peculiar manner to her memory, with his four children. Nothing of this was positively said; for,
But all of it was indubitably comprised in the various short but pointed sentences which fell from him.
Friday, July 25.—Again, to a very late breakfast came Mr. Fairly, which again he made for himself, when the rest were dispersed, of all the odd remnants, eatable and drinkable. He was much better, and less melancholy. He said he should be well enough to join the royal party to-morrow, who were to dine and spend the whole day at Lord Coventry’s at Coombe....
In the afternoon, while Miss Planta and myself were Sitting over our dessert, a gentle rap at the parlour-door preceded Mr. Fairly. How we both started! He was muffled up in a great coat, and said he came quite incog., as he was not well enough to dine anywhere but in his private apartment, nor to attend the royals to the walks, whither they go every evening. He had only strolled out for a walk by himself.
I could not persuade him to sit down; he said he must be gone immediately, lest he should be seen, and the king, not aware of his unfitness, should order his attendance.
Miss Planta, presently, was obliged to go to the princesses, and wait with them till the promenade took place. Quietly, then, he drew a chair to the table, and I saw he had something to say; but, after a little general talk he rose and was going: when, hearing by the dogs the royal family were just in motion, he pulled off his great coat and seated himself again.
And then, he took from his pocket a small volume, which he said he had taken this opportunity to bring me. You will be sure it was the “Original Letters.”
I took them, and thanked him: he charged me with a very grave air to keep them safe, and I put them into my work-box—my dear Fredy’s work-box—which here is my universal repository of small goods and chattels, and useful past all thanks.
By the time they were set off, however, we were entered into conversation, and he said he would venture to stay tea; “though, as I tell you,” he added, “what I do not tell everybody, I must confess I have upon me some certain symptoms that make me a little suspect these Cheltenham waters are going to bring me to a fit of the gout.”
And then he told me that that dreadful disorder had been frequently and dangerously in his family, though he had himself never had it but once, which was after a very bad fall from his horse when hunting with the king.
Miss Planta now joined us, looking not a little surprised to find Mr. Fairly still here, and I ordered tea. After it was over, she went to take her usual evening exercise; and then Mr. Fairly, pointing to my work-box, said, “Shall I read a little to you?”
Certainly, I said, if it would not too much fatigue him; and then, with the greatest pleasure in renewing again a mode in which I had taken so much delight, I got my work and gave him his book. Unluckily, however, it was the second volume; the first, having read, he had left in town. “It is quite, however,” he said, “immaterial whether You begin with the first volume or the second; the story is nothing; the language and the sentiments are all you can care for.”
I did not quite agree in this, but would not say so, lest he should think of me as Colonel Gwynn does of him, that I am very romantic which, however, I am not, though I never like to anticipate an end ere I know a beginning.
Indeed, he had not praised them too highly, nor raised my expectations beyond what could answer them, They are full of beauties—moral, elegant, feeling, and rational. He seemed most unusually gratified by seeing me so much pleased with them. “I am so glad,” he cried, “You like them, for I thought you would!” But we began so late that he could only, get through two letters, when the time of my retiring arrived. I was sorry also to have him out so late after his long confinement; but he wrapped himself up in his great coat, and did not seem to think he should suffer from it.
Miss Planta came to my room upstairs, to Inquire how long Mr. Fairly had stayed, and I was quite happy to appease her astonishment that he should come without sending in to the king, by assuring her he was only nursing for the next day, when he meant to attend the Coombe party.
I thought it so absolutely right to mention his visit to the queen, lest, hearing of it from the princesses through Miss Planta, she Should wonder yet more, that I put aside the disagreeable feel of exciting that wonder myself, and told her he had drank tea here, when I attended her at night. She seemed much more surprised than pleased, till I added that he was preparing and hardening himself for the Coombe expedition the next day, and then she was quite satisfied.285
Saturday, July 26.—The royal party were to be Out the whole day, and I had her majesty’s permission to go to the play at night with Miss Port and her friends, and to introduce MISS Planta to them for the same purpose. The breakfast was at seven o’clock; we were all up at half after five. How sorry was I to see Colonel Gwynn enter alone, and to hear that Mr. Fairly was again ill.
Soon after the king came into the room and said, “So, no Mr. Fairly again?”
“No, sir; he’s very bad this morning.”
“What’s the matter? His face?”
“No, sir; he has got the gout. These waters., he thinks, have brought it on.”
“What, in his foot?”
“Yes, sir; he is quite lame, his foot is swelled prodigiously." “So he’s quite knocked up! Can’t he come out?”
“No, sir; he’s obliged to order a gouty shoe and stay at home and nurse.”
The king declared the Cheltenham waters were admirable friends to the constitution, by bringing disorders out of the habit. Mr. Fairly, he said, had not been well some time, and a smart fit of the gout might set him all to rights again. Alas, thought I, a smart fit of the gout in a lonely lodging at a water-drinking place!
They all presently set off; and so fatigued was my poor little frame, I was glad to go and lie down; but I never can sleep when I try for it in the daytime; the moment I cease all employment, my thoughts take such an ascendance over my morphetic faculty, that the attempt always ends in a deep and most Wakeful meditation.
About twelve o’clock I was reading In my private loan book, when, hearing the step of Miss Planta on the stairs, I put it back in my work-box, and Was just taking thence some other employment, when her voice struck my ear almost in a scream “Is it possible? Mr. Fairly!”
My own with difficulty refrained echoing it when I heard his voice answer her, and in a few minutes they parted, and he rapped at the door and entered my little parlour. He came in hobbling, leaning on a stick, and with a large cloth shoe over one of his feet, which was double the size of the other.
We sat down together, and he soon inquired what I had done with his little book. I had only, I answered, read two more letters.
“Have you read two?” he cried, in a voice rather disappointed; and I found he was actually come to devote the morning, which he knew to be unappropriated on my part, to reading it on to me himself. Then he took up the book and read on from the fifth letter. But he read at first with evident uneasiness, throwing down the book at every noise, and stopping to listen at every sound. At last he asked me if anybody was likely to come?
Not a soul, I said, that I knew or expected.
He laughed a little at his question and apparent anxiety but with an openness that singularly marks his character, he frankly added, “I must put the book away, pure as it is, if any one comes or, without knowing a word of the contents, they will run away with the title alone, exclaiming, ‘Mr. Fairly reading love letters to Miss Burney!’ A fine story that would make!”
‘Pon honour, thought I, I would not hear such a tale for the world. However, he now pursued his reading more at his ease.
I will not tell you what we said of them in talking them over. Our praise I have chiefly given—our criticism must wait till you have read them yourselves. They are well worth your seeking. I am greatly mistaken if you do not read them with delight.
In the course of the discussion he glided, I know not how, upon the writings of another person, saying he never yet had talked them over with me.
“It is much kinder not,” cried I hastily....
“Well, but,” cried he laughing, “may I find a fault? Will you hear a criticism, if nothing of another sort?” I was forced to accede to this.
He told me, then, there was one thing he wholly disallowed and wished to dispute, which was, Cecilia’s refusing to be married on account of the anonymous prohibition to the ceremony. He could not, he said, think such an implied distrust of Delvile, after consenting to be his, was fair or generous.
“To that,” cried I, “I cannot judge what a man may think, but I will own it is what most precisely and indubitably I could not have resisted doing myself. An interruption so mysterious and so shocking I could never have had the courage to pass over.”
This answer rather silenced him from politeness than convinced him from reason, for I found he thought the woman who had given her promise was already married, and ought to run every risk rather than show the smallest want of confidence in the man of her choice.
Columb now soon came in to inquire what time I should dine, but a ghost could not have made him stare more than Mr. Fairly, whose confinement with the gout had been spread all over the house by Colonel Gwynn.
“I ordered an early dinner on account of the play.”
“Will you invite me,” cried Mr. Fairly, laughing, “to dine with you?”
“Oh yes!” I cried, “with the greatest pleasure.” and he said he would go to his home and dress, and return to my hour.
As he was at leisure, I had bespoke the queen’s hairdresser, on account of the play; but Miss Planta came to inform me that she could not be of that party, as she had received a letter from Lady Charlotte Finch, concerning Princess Mary, that she must stay to deliver herself.
I told her she would have a beau at dinner. “Well,” she exclaimed, “’tis the oddest thing in the world He should come so when the king and queen are away! I am sure, if I was you, I would not mention it.”
“Oh yes, I shall,” cried I; “I receive no visitors in private; and I am sure if I did, Mr. Fairly is the last who would condescend to make one of them.” Such was my proud, but true speech, for him and for myself.
At dinner we all three met; Mr. Fairly in much better spirits than I have yet seen him at Cheltenham. He attacks Miss Planta upon all her little prejudices, and rallies her into a defence of them, in a manner so sportive ’tis impossible to hurt her, yet so nearly sarcastic that she is frequently perplexed whether to take it in good or ill part. But his intentions are so decidedly averse to giving pain, that even when she is most alarmed at finding the laugh raised against her, some suddenly good-humoured or obliging turn sets all to rights, and secures any sting from remaining, even where the bee has been most menacing to fix itself.
I believe Mr. Fairly to possess from nature high animal spirits, though now curbed by misfortune and a fine vein of satire, though constantly kept in order by genuine benevolence. He is still, in mixed company, gay, shrewd, and arch; foremost in badinage, and readiest for whatever may promote general entertainment. But in chosen society his spirits do not rise above cheerfulness; he delights in moral discourse, on grave and instructive subjects, and though always ready to be led to the politics or business of the day, in which he is constantly well versed and informing I never observe him to lead but to themes of religion, literature, or moral life.
When dinner and a very sociable dessert were over, we proposed going to the king’s dining-parlour, while the servants removed the things, etc., against tea. But the weather was so very fine we were tempted by the open door to go out into the air. Miss Planta said she would take a walk; Mr. Fairly could not, but all without was so beautiful he would not go into the parlour, and rather risked the fatigue of standing, as he leant against the porch, to losing the lovely prospect of sweet air.
And here, for near two hours, on the steps of Fauconberg Hall, we remained; and they were two hours of such pure serenity, without and within, as I think, except in Norbury park, with its loved inhabitants and my Susan, I scarce ever remember to have spent. Higher gaiety and greater happiness many and many periods of my life have at different times afforded me; but a tranquillity more perfect has only, I think, been lent to me in Norbury park, where, added to all else that could soothe and attract, every affection of my heart could be expanded and indulged. But what have I to do with a comparison no longer cherished but by memory.
The time I have mentioned being past, Miss Planta returned from her walk, and we adjourned to the little parlour, where I made tea, and then I equipped myself for the play.
The sweet Miss Port received me with her usual kind joy, and introduced me to her friends, who are Mr. Delabere, the master of the house, and chief magistrate of Cheltenham, and his family.
We all proceeded to the play-house, which is a very pretty little theatre. Mrs. Jordan played the “Country Girl,” most admirably; but the play is so disagreeable in Its whole plot and tendency, that all the merit of her performance was insufficient to ward off disgust.286 My principal end, however, was wholly answered, in spending the evening with my poor M——-....
Lady Harcourt is come to take the place of Lady Weymouth, whose waiting is over; and Lord Harcourt will lodge in the town of Cheltenham. We have no room here for double accommodations.
Sunday, July 27.—This morning in my first attendance I seized a moment to tell her majesty of yesterday’s dinner. “So I hear!” she cried; and I was sorry any one had anticipated my information, nor can I imagine who it might be.
“But pray, ma’am,” very gravely, “how did it happen? I understood Mr. Fairly was confined by the gout.”
“He grew better, ma’am, and hoped by exercise to prevent a serious fit.”
She said no more, but did not seem pleased. The fatigues of a Court attendance are so little comprehended, that persons known to be able to quit their room and their bed are Instantly concluded to be qualified for all the duties of their office.
We were again very early, as their majesties meant to go to the cathedral at Gloucester, where the Bishop of Gloucester, Dr. Halifax, was to Preach to them. But I-was particularly glad, before our breakfast, was over, to see Mr. Fairly enter my little parlour. He was Still In his gouty Shoe, and assisted by a stick, but he had not suffered from his yesterday’s exertion.
Before the things were removed, a page opened the door, and all the royal family—king, queen, and three princesses—came into the room to see Mr. Fairly and Inquire how he did. I hardly know with which of the five he is most in favour, or by which most respected, and they all expressed their concern for this second attack, in the kindest terms.
The king, however, who has a flow of spirits at this time quite unequalled, would fain have turned the whole into ridicule, and have persuaded him he was only fanciful.
“Fanciful, Sir?” he repeated, a little displeased; and the good king perceiving it, graciously and good-humouredly drew back his words, by saying “Why I should wonder indeed if you were to be that!”
When they all decamped I prepared for church. I had appointed to go with Miss Port, and to meet her on the road. Mr. Fairly said, if I would give him leave, he would stay and write letters in my little parlour. I supplied him with materials, and emptied my queen’s writing-box for a desk, as we possess nothing here but a low dining-table. So away went journals, letters, memorandums, etc., into the red portfolio given me by my dear father.
As soon as I presented him with this, not at all aware of the goods and chattels removed for the occasion, he said it was so very comfortable he should now write all his letters here, for at his lodgings he had such a miserable low table he had been forced to prop it up by brick-bats!
Mr. Fairly sealed and made up his dispatches, and then said he would stroll a little out to put his foot in motion. “And what,” he asked, “shall you do?”
I had a great mind to say, Why, stroll with you; for that, I think, was the meaning OF his question; but I feared it might prevent my being dressed against the return Of the queen, and I do not think she would have thought it an adequate excuse.
Monday, July 28.—-Miss Ogle acquainted me that this was the last day of her remaining at Cheltenham, and I promised to drink tea with her in the afternoon; and the queen honoured me with a commission to bring Mrs. Ogle on the walks, as his majesty wished again to see her....
I found Mrs. Ogle and her daughters all civility and good humour. Poor Mrs. Ogle has lately (by what means I do not know) wholly lost her eye-sight; but she is perfectly resigned to this calamity, and from motives just such as suit a bishop’s daughter. When I told her who desired her to be on the walks, she was extremely gratified. Spotty is a complete rebel, according to the principles of her republican father, and protested it would only be a folly and fuss to go, for their notice. The younger sisters are bred rebels too; but the thought of guiding their mother, when such royal distinction was intended her, flattered and fluctuated them. There was another lady with them, who told me that Dr. Warton, of Winchester, had desired her to make acquaintance with me; but I have forgotten her name, and have no time to refresh my memory with it.
To the walks we went, the good and pious Mrs. Ogle between her two young daughters, and Spotty and I together. Spotty begged me to go to the ball with her, but I had neither licence nor inclination.
The queen immediately espied Mrs. Ogle, by seeing me, as I heard her say to the king; and they approached the spot where we stood, in the most gracious manner. The king spoke with such kindness to Mrs. Ogle, and with such great regard of her late father, that the good lady was most deeply affected with pleasure. I believe they stayed half an hour with her, talking over old scenes and circumstances. Spotty kept pulling me all the time, to decamp; but I kept “invincible,”—not quite like Mr. Pitt, yet “invincible.” At last the king spoke to her: this confused her so much, between the pleasure of the notice, and the shame of feeling that pleasure, that she knew not what she either did or said, answered everything wrong, and got out of the line, and stood with her back to the queen, and turned about she knew not why, and behaved like one who had lost her wits.
When they left us, Mrs. Ogle expressed her grateful sense of the honour done her, almost with tears; the two young ones said, they had never conceived the king and queen could be such sweet people and poor Spotty was so affected and so constrained in denying them praise, and persisting that she thought it “all a bore,” that I saw the republican heart was gone, though the tongue held its ground.
A second time, after a few more turns, the same gracious party approached, with fresh recollections and fresh questions concerning interesting family matters. This was more than could be withstood; Mrs. Ogle was almost overpowered by their condescension; the young ones protested they should never bear to hear anything but praise of them all their lives to come and poor Spotty was quite dumb! She could not, for shame, join the chorus of praise, and to resist it she had no longer any power.
We did not, however, stop here; for still a third time they advanced, and another conference ensued, in which Mrs. Ogle’s sons were inquired for, and their way of life, and designs and characters. This ended and completed the whole; Mrs. Ogle no longer restrained the tears of pleasure from flowing; her little daughters declared, aloud, the king and queen were the two most sweet persons in the whole world, and they would say so as long as they lived; and poor Spotty, colouring and conscious, said—“But I hope I did not behave so bad this time as the first?” Nay, so wholly was she conquered, that, losing her stubbornness more and more by reflection, she would not let me take leave till she obliged me to promise I would either call the next morning, before their departure, or write her a little note, to say if they found out or mentioned her ungraciousness.
I was too well pleased in the convert to refuse her this satisfaction; and so full was her mind of her new loyalty, that when she found me steady in declining to go with her to the ball, she gave it up herself, and said she would go home with her mother and sisters, to talk matters over.
July 31.—Miss Planta said the Duke of York was expected the next day. This led to much discourse on the princes, in which Mr. Fairly, with his usual but Most uncommon openness, protested there was something in the violence of their animal spirits that would make him accept no post and no pay to live with them. Their very voices, he said, had a loudness and force that wore him.
Immediately after he made a little attack—a gentle one, Indeed—upon me, for the contrary extreme, of hardly speaking, among strangers at least, so as to be heard. “And why,” cried he, “do you speak so low? I used formerly not to catch above a word in a sentence from you.” In talking about the princes, he asked me how I managed with them.
Not at all, I said, for since I had resided under the royal roof they were rarely there, and I had merely seen them two or three times.
He congratulated me that I had not been in the family in earlier days, when they all lived together; and Miss Planta enumerated various of their riots, and the distresses and difficulties they caused in the household.
I was very glad, I said, to be out of the way, though I did not doubt but I might have kept clear of them had I been even then a resident.
“O no, no,” cried Mr. Fairly; “they would have come to you, I promise you; and what could you have done—what would have become of you?—with Prince William in particular? Do you not think, Miss Planta, the Prince of Wales and Prince William would have been quite enough for Miss Burney? Why she would have been quite subdued.”
I assured him I had not a fear but I might always have avoided them.
“Impossible! They would have come to your tea-room.”
“I would have given up tea.”
“Then they would have followed you—called for you—sent for you—the Prince of Wales would have called about him, ‘Here! where’s Miss Burney?’” “O, no, no, no!” cried I; “I would have kept wholly out of the way, and then they would never have thought about me.” “O, ho!” cried he, laughing, “never think of seeing Miss Burney Prince William, too! what say you to that, Miss Planta?”
She agreed there was no probability of such escape. I was only the more glad to have arrived in later times.
Here a page came to call Mr. Fairly to backgammon with his majesty.