Dec. 15.—This whole day was passed in great internal agitation throughout the house, as the great and important business of the Regency was to be discussed to-morrow in Parliament. All is now too painful and intricate for writing a word. I begin to confine my memorandums almost wholly to my own personal proceedings.
Dec. 16.—Whatsoever might pass in the House on this momentous subject, it sat so late that no news could arrive. Sweeter and better news, however, was immediately at hand than any the whole senate could transmit; the account from the pages was truly cheering. With what joy did I hasten with it to the queen, who immediately ordered me to be its welcome messenger to the three princesses. And when Mr. Smelt came to my breakfast, with what rapture did he receive it! seizing and kissing my hand, while his eyes ran over, and joy seemed quite to bewitch him. He flew away in a very few minutes, to share his happiness with his faithful partner.
After breakfast I had a long conference in the parlour with Sir Lucas Pepys, who justly gloried in the advancement of his original prediction; but there had been much dissension amongst the physicians, concerning the bulletin to go to St. James’s, no two agreeing in the degree of better to be announced to the world.
Dr. Willis came in while we were conversing, but instantly retreated, to leave us undisturbed. He looks a very fine old man. I wish to be introduced to him. Mr. Smelt and Mr. Fairly are both quite enchanted with all the family; for another son now, a clergyman, Mr. Thomas Willis, has joined their forces.
Dec. 17.—MY account this morning was most afflictive once more: it was given by Mr. Hawkins, and was cruelly subversive of all our rising hopes. I carried it to the queen in trembling but she bore it most mildly. What resignation is hers!
Dec. 22.—With what joy did I carry, this morning, an exceeding good account of the king to my royal mistress! It was trebly welcome., as much might depend upon it in the resolutions of the House concerning the Regency, which was of to-day’s discussion.
Mr. Fairly took leave, for a week, he said, wishing me my health, while I expressed my own wishes for his good journey But, in looking forward to a friendship the most permanent, saw the eligibility of rendering it the most open. I therefore went back to Mrs. Schwellenberg; and the moment I received a reproach for staying so long, I calmly answered, “Mr. Fairly had made me a visit, to take leave before he went into the country.”
Amazement was perhaps never more indignant. Mr. Fairly to take leave of me! while not once he even called upon her! This offence swallowed up all other comments upon the communication. I seemed not to understand it; but we had a terrible two hours and a-half. Yet to such, now, I may look forward without any mixture, any alleviation, for evening after evening in this sad abode.
N.B. My own separate adventures for this month, and year, concluded upon this day.
The king went on now better, now worse, in a most fearful manner; but Sir Lucas Pepys never lost sight of hope, and the management of Dr. Willis and his two sons was most wonderfully acute and successful. Yet so much were they perplexed and tormented by the interruptions given to their plans and methods, that they were frequently almost tempted to resign the undertaking from anger and confusion. DR. WILLIS AND His SON.
Kew Palace, Thursday, Jan. 1, 1789.—The year opened with an account the most promising of our beloved king. I saw Dr. Willis, and he told me the night had been very tranquil and he sent for his son, Dr. John Willis, to give me a history of the morning. Dr. John’s narration was in many parts very affecting: the dear and excellent king had been praying for his own restoration! Both the doctors told me that such strong symptoms of true piety had scarce ever been discernible through so dreadful a malady.
How I hastened to my queen!—and with what alacrity I besought permission to run next to the princesses! It was so sweet, so soothing, to open a new year with the solace of anticipated good!
Jan. 3.—I have the great pleasure, now, of a change in my morning’s historiographers; I have made acquaintance with Dr. Willis and his son, and they have desired me to summon one of them constantly for my information. I am extremely struck with both these physicians. Dr. Willis is a man of ten thousand; open, holiest, dauntless, lighthearted, innocent, and high minded: I see him impressed with the most animated reverence and affection for his royal patient; but it is wholly for his character,—not a whit for his rank.
Dr. John, his eldest son, is extremely handsome, and inherits, in a milder degree, all the qualities of his father; but living more in the general world, and having his fame and fortune still to settle, he has not yet acquired the same courage, nor is he, by nature, quite so sanguine in his opinions. The manners of both are extremely pleasing, and they both proceed completely their own way, not merely unacquainted with court etiquette, but wholly, and most artlessly, unambitious to form any such acquaintance.
Jan. 11.—This morning Dr. John gave me but a bad account of the poor king. His amendment is not progressive; it fails, and goes back, and disappoints most grievously; yet it would be nothing were the case and its circumstances less discussed, and were expectation more reasonable.
Jan. 12.—A melancholy day: news bad both at home and abroad. At home the dear unhappy king still worse—abroad new examinations voted of the physicians! Good heaven! what an insult does this seem from parliamentary power, to investigate and bring forth to the world every circumstance Of such a malady as is ever held sacred to secrecy in the most private families! How indignant we all feel here no words can say.
Jan. 13.—The two younger Willises, Dr. John and Mr. Thomas, came upstairs in the afternoon, to make a visit to Mrs. Schwellenberg. I took the opportunity to decamp to my own room, where I found Mr. Fairly in waiting.
In the course of conversation that followed, Mrs. Carter was named: Mr. Smelt is seriously of opinion her ode is the best in our language.301 I spoke of her very highly, for indeed I reverence her.
Learning in women was then Our theme. I rather wished to hear than to declaim upon this subject, yet I never seek to disguise that I think it has no recommendation of sufficient value to compensate its evil excitement of envy and satire.
He spoke with very uncommon liberality on the female powers and intellects, and protested he had never, in his commerce with the world, been able to discern any other inferiority in their parts than what resulted from their Pursuits-and yet, with all this, he doubted much whether he had ever seen any woman who might not have been rather better without than with the learned languages, one only excepted.
He was some time silent, and I could not but suppose he meant his correspondent, Miss Fuzilier; but, with a very tender sigh, he said, “And she was my mother,—who neglected nothing else, while she cultivated Latin, and who knew it very well, and would have known it very superiorly, but that her brother disliked her studying, and one day burnt all her books!”
This anecdote led to one in return, from myself. I told him, briefly the history of Dr. Johnson’s most kind condescension, in desiring to make me his pupil, and beginning to give me regular lessons of the Latin language, and i proceeded to the speedy conclusion—my great apprehension,—conviction rather,—that what I learnt of so great a man could never be private, and that he himself would contemn concealment, if any progress should be made; which to Me was sufficient motive for relinquishing the scheme, and declining the honour, highly as I valued it, of obtaining Such a master—“and this,” I added, “though difficult to be done without offending, was yet the better effected, as my father himself likes and approves all accomplishments for women better than the dead languages.”
Jan. 14.—I must now mention a rather singular conversation. I had no opportunity last night to name, as usual, my visitor; but I have done it so often, so constantly indeed, that I was not uneasy In the omission.
But this morning, while her hair was dressing, my royal Mistress suddenly said, “Did you see any body yesterday?” I could not but be sure of her meaning, and though vexed to be anticipated in my avowal, which had but waited the departure of the wardrobe-woman, Sandys, I instantly answered, “Yes, ma’am; Mr. Smelt in the morning and Mr. Fairly in the evening.”
“O! Mr. Fairly was here, then?”
I was now doubly sorry she should know this only from me! He had Mentioned being just come from town, but I had concluded Lady Charlotte Finch, as usual, knew of his arrival, and had made it known to her Majesty. A little while after,—“Did he go away from you early?” she said.
“No, ma’am,” I Immediately answered, “not early: he drank tea with Me, as he generally does, I believe, when he is here for the night.”
“Perhaps,” cried she after a pause, “the gentlemen below do not drink tea.”
“I cannot tell, ma’am, I never heard him say; I only know he asked me if I would give him some, and I told him yes, with great pleasure.”
Never did I feel so happy in unblushing consciousness of internal liberty as in this little catechism! However, I soon found I had Mistaken the Motive of the catechism: it was not on account of Mr. Fairly and his visit; it was all for Mrs. Schwellenberg and her no visits; for she soon dropped something of “poor Mrs. Schwellenberg” and her Miserable state, that opened her whole meaning. A MELANCHOLY BIRTHDAY.
Sunday, Jan. 18.—The public birthday of my poor royal mistress. How sadly did she pass it; and how was I filled With sorrow for her reflections upon this its first anniversary for these last twenty-eight years in which the king and the nation have not united in its celebration! All now was passed over in silence and obscurity; all observance of the day was prohibited, both abroad and at home.
The poor king whose attention to times and dates is unremittingly exact, knew the day, and insisted upon seeing the queen and three of the princesses; but—it was not a good day.
Jan. 21.—I came to my room; and there, in my own corner, sat poor Mr. Fairly, looking a little forlorn, and telling me he had been there near an hour. I made every apology that could mark in the strongest manner how little I thought his patience worth such exertion....
He was going to spend the next day at St. Leonard’s, where he was to meet his son; and he portrayed to me the character of Mrs. Harcourt so fairly and favourably, that her flightiness sunk away on the rise of her good qualities. He spoke of his chapel of St. Catherine’s, its emoluments, chaplain, brothers, sisters, and full establishment.
Finding I entered into nothing, he took up a fan which lay on my table, and began playing off various imitative airs with it, exclaiming, “How thoroughly useless a toy!”
“No,” I said; “on the contrary, taken as an ornament, it was the most useful ornament of any belonging to full dress, occupying the hands, giving the eyes something to look at, and taking away stiffness and formality from the figure and deportment.”
“Men have no fans,” cried he, “and how do they do?”
“Worse,” quoth I, plumply.
He laughed quite out, saying, “That’s ingenuous, however; and, indeed, I must confess they are reduced, from time to time, to shift their hands from one pocket to another.”
“Not, to speak of lounging about in their chairs from one side to another.”
“But the real use of a fan,” cried he, “if there is any, is it not—to hide a particular blush that ought not to appear?"
“O, no; it would rather make it the sooner noticed.”
“Not at all; it may be done under pretence of absence—rubbing the cheek, or nose—putting it up accidentally to the eye—in a thousand ways.”
He went through all these evolutions comically enough, and then, putting aside his toy, came back to graver matters.
Jan. 26.—In the evening Mr. Fairly came to tea. He was grave, and my reception did not make him gayer. General discourse took place till Mrs. Dickenson happened to be named. He knew her very well as Miss Hamilton. Her conjugal conduct, in displaying her Superior power over her husband, was our particular theme, till in the midst of it he exclaimed, “How well you will be trained in by Mrs. Schwellenberg—if you come to trial!”
Ah! thought I, the more I suffer through her, the less and less do I feel disposed to run any new and more lasting risk, But I said not this. I only protested I was much less her humble servant than might be supposed.
“How can that be,” cried he, “when you never contest any one point with her?”
Not, I said, in positive wrangling, which could never answer its horrible pain; but still I refused undue obedience when exacted with indignity, and always hastened to retire when offended and affronted.
He took up Mrs. Smith’s “Emmeline,"302 which is just lent me by the queen; but he found it not piquant and putting it down, begged me to choose him a Rambler. I had a good deal of difficulty in my decision, as he had already seen almost all I could particularly wish to recommend; and, when he saw me turn over leaf after leaf with some hesitation, he began a serious reproach to me of inflexible reserve. And then away he went.
I hastened immediately to Mrs. Schwellenberg; and found all in a tumult. She had been, she said, alone all the evening, and was going to have sent for me, but found I had my company. She sent for Mlle. Montmoulin but she had a cold; for Miss Gomme, but she could not come because of the snow; for Miss Planta but she was ill with a fever, “what you call head-ache:” she had then “sent to princess royal, who had been to her, and pitied her ver moch, for princess royal was really sensible.”
And all this was communicated with a look of accusation, and a tone of menace, that might have suited an attack upon some hardened felon....
I made no sort of apology nor any other answer than that I had had the honour of Mr. Fairly’s company to tea, which was always a pleasure to me.
I believe something like consciousness whispered her here, that it might really be possible his society was as pleasant as I had found hers, for she then dropped her lamentation, and said she thanked God she wanted nobody, not one; she could always amuse herself, and was glad enough to be alone.
Were it but true!
I offered cards: she refused, because it was too late, though we yet remained together near two hours.
If this a little disordered me, You will not think what followed was matter of composure. While the queen’s hair was rolling up, by the wardrobe woman, at night, Mrs. Schwellenberg happened to leave the room, and almost instantly her majesty, in a rather abrupt manner, said “Is Mr. Fairly here to-night?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“When did he come back?”
I could not recollect.
“I did not know he was here.”
This thunderstruck me; that he should come again, or stay, at least, without apprising his royal mistress, startled me inwardly, and distressed me outwardly.
“I knew, indeed,” she then added, “he was here in the morning, but I understood he went away afterwards.”
The idea of connivance now struck me with a real disdain, that brought back my courage and recollection in full force, and I answered, “I remember, ma’am, he told me he had rode over to Richmond park at noon, and returned here to dinner with Colonel Wellbred, and in the evening he drank tea with me, and said he should sup with General Harcourt.”
All this, spoken with an openness that rather invited than shunned further investigation, seemed to give an immediate satisfaction; the tone of voice changed to its usual complacency, and she inquired various things concerning the Stuart family, and then spoke upon more common topics.
I concluded it now all over; but soon after Mrs. Sandys went away, and then, very unexpectedly, the queen renewed the subject. “The reason,” she said, “that I asked about Mr. Fairly was that the Schwellenberg sent to ask Miss Planta to come to her, because Mr. Fairly was—no, not with her—he never goes to her.”
She stopped; but I was wholly silent. I felt instantly with how little propriety I could undertake either to defend or to excuse Mr. Fairly, whom I determined to consider as a visitor, over whom, having no particular influence, I could be charged with no particular responsibility.
After waiting a few minutes, “With you,” she said, “Mr. Fairly was and the Schwellenberg was alone.”
My spirits quite panted at this moment to make a full confession of the usage I had endured from the person thus compassionated; but I had so frequently resolved, in moments of cool deliberation, not even to risk doing mischief to a favourite old servant, that I withstood the impulse; but the inward conflict silenced me from saying anything else.
I believe she was surprised but she added, after a long pause, “I believe—he comes to you every evening when here.”
“I do not know, ma’am, always, when he is here or away; but I am always very glad to see him, for indeed his visits make all the little variety that—”
I hastily stopped, lest she should think me discontented with this strict confinement during this dreadful season; and that I can never be, when it is not accompanied by tyranny and injustice.
She immediately took up the word, but without the slightest displeasure. “Why here there might be more variety than anywhere, from the nearness to town, except for—”
“The present situation of things.” I eagerly interrupted her to say, and went on: “Indeed, ma’am, I have scarce a wish to break into the present arrangement, by seeing anybody while the house is in this state; nor have I, from last October, seen one human being that does not live here, except Mr. Smelt, Mr. Fairly, and Sir Lucas Pepys; and they all come upon their own calls, and not for me.”
“The only objection,” she gently answered, “to seeing anybody, is that every one who comes carries some sort of information away with them." I assured her I was perfectly content to wait for better times, Here the matter dropped; she appeared satisfied with what I said, and became soft and serene as before the little attack.
Jan. 27.—The intelligence this morning was not very pleasant. I had a conference afterwards with Sir Lucas Pepys, who keeps up undiminished hope. We held our council in the physicians’ room, which chanced to be empty; but before it broke up Colonel Wellbred entered. It was a pleasure to me to see him, though somewhat an embarrassment to hear him immediately lament that we never met, and add that he knew not in what manner to procure himself that pleasure. I joined in the lamentation, and its cause, which confined us all to our cells. Sir Lucas declared my confinement menaced my health, and charged me to walk out, and take air and exercise very sedulously, if I would avoid an illness.
Colonel Wellbred instantly offered me a key of Richmond gardens, which opened into them by a nearer door than what was used in common. I accepted his kindness, and took an hour’s walk,-for the first time since last October; ten minutes in Kew gardens are all I have spent without doors since the middle of that month.
Jan. 30.—To-day my poor royal mistress received the address of the Lords and Commons, of condolence, etc., upon his majesty’s illness. What a painful, but necessary ceremony! It was most properly presented by but few members, and those almost all chosen from the household: a great propriety.
Not long after came Mr. Fairly, looking harassed. “May I,” he cried, “come in?—and-for an hour? Can you allow me entrance and room for that time?”
Much Surprised, for already it was three o’clock, I assented: he then told me he had something to copy for her majesty, which was of the highest importance, and said he could find no quiet room in the house but mine for such a business. I gave him every accommodation in my power. When he had written a few lines, he asked if I was very busy, or could help him? Most readily I offered my services, and then I read to him the original, sentence by sentence, to facilitate his copying; receiving his assurances of my “great assistance” every two lines. In the midst of this occupation, a tap at my door made me precipitately put down the paper to receive-lady Charlotte Finch!
“Can you,” she cried, “have the goodness to tell me any thing of Mr. Fairly?”
The screen had hidden him; but, gently,—though, I believe ill enough pleased,—he called out himself, “Here is Mr. Fairly.”
She flew up to him, crying, “O, Mr. Fairly, what a search has there been for you, by the queen’s orders! She has wanted you extremely, and no one knew where to find you. They have been to the waiting-room, to the equerries’, all over the garden, to the prince’s house, in your own room, and could find you nowhere, and at last they thought you were gone back to town.”
He calmly answered, while he still wrote on, he was sorry they had had so much trouble, for he had only been executing her majesty’s commands.
She then hesitated a little, almost to stammering, in adding “So—at last—I said—that perhaps—you might be here!”
He now raised his head from the paper, and bowing it towards me, “Yes,” he cried, “Miss Burney is so good as to give me leave, and there is no other room in the house in Which I can be at rest.”
“So I told her majesty,” answered Lady Charlotte, “though she said she was sure you could not be here; but I said there was really no room of quiet here for any business, and so then I came to see.”
“Miss Burney,” he rejoined, “has the goodness also to help me—she has taken the trouble to read as I go on, which forwards me very much.”
Lady Charlotte stared, and I felt sorry at this confession of a confidence she could not but think too much, and I believe he half repented it, for he added, “This, however, you need not perhaps mention, though I know where I trust!”
He proceeded again with his writing, and she then recollected her errand. She told him that what he was copying was to be carried to town by Lord Aylesbury, but the queen desired to see it first. She then returned to her majesty.
She soon, however, returned again. She brought the queen’s seal, and leave that he might make up the packet, and give it to Lord Aylesbury, without showing it first to her majesty, who was just gone to dinner. With her customary good-humour and good-breeding, she then chatted with me some time, and again departed.
We then went to work with all our might, reading and copying. The original was extremely curious—I am sorry I must make it equally secret.
Miss BURNEY’s ALARM ON BEING CHASED BY THE KING. Kew Palace, Monday, Feb. 2.—What an adventure had I this morning! one that has occasioned me the severest personal terror I ever experienced in my life.
Sir Lucas Pepys still persisting that exercise and air were absolutely necessary to save me from illness, I have continued my walks, varying my gardens from Richmond to Kew, according to the accounts I received of the movements of the king. For this I had her majesty’s permission, on the representation of Sir Lucas. This morning, when I received my intelligence of the king from Dr. John Willis, I begged to know where I might walk in safety? “In Kew gardens,” he said, “as the king would be in Richmond.”
“Should any unfortunate circumstance,” I cried, “at any time, occasion my being seen by his majesty, do not mention my name, but let me run off without call or notice.” This he promised. Everybody, indeed, is ordered to keep out of sight. Taking, therefore, the time I had most at command, I strolled into the gardens. I had proceeded, in my quick way, nearly half the round, when I suddenly perceived, through some trees, two or three figures. Relying on the instructions of Dr. John, I concluded them to be workmen and gardeners; yet tried to look sharp, and in so doing, as they were less shaded, I thought I saw the person of his majesty!
Alarmed past all possible expression, I waited not to know more, but turning back, ran off with all my might. But what was my terror to hear myself pursued!—to hear the voice of the king himself loudly and hoarsely calling after me, “Miss Burney! Miss Burney!”
I protest I was ready to die. I knew not in what state he might be at the time; I only knew the orders to keep out of his way were universal; that the queen would highly disapprove any unauthorized meeting, and that the very action of my running away might deeply, in his present irritable state, offend him. Nevertheless, on I ran, too terrified to stop, and In search Of some short passage, for the garden is full of labyrinths, by which I might escape.
The steps still pursued me, and Still the poor hoarse and altered voice rang in my ears:—more and more footsteps sounded frightfully behind me,—the attendants all running to catch their eager master, and the voices of the two Doctor Willises loudly exhorting him not to heat himself so unmercifully.
Heavens, how I ran! I do not think I should have felt the hot lava from Vesuvius—at least not the hot cinders—had I so run during its eruption. My feet were not sensible that they even touched the ground.
Soon after, I heard other voices, shriller, though less nervous, call out “Stop! stop! stop!”
I could by no means consent: I knew not what was purposed, but I recollected fully my agreement with Dr. John that very morning, that I should decamp if Surprised, and not b named. My own fears and repugnance, also, after a flight and disobedience like this, were doubled in the thought of not escaping; I knew not to what I might be exposed, should the malady be then high, and take the turn of resentment. Still, therefore, on I flew; and such was my speed, so almost incredible to relate or recollect, that I fairly believe no one of the whole party could have overtaken me, if these words, from one of the attendants, had not reached me, “Doctor Willis begs you to stop!”
“I cannot! I cannot!” I answered, still flying on, when he called out, “You must, ma’am; it hurts the king to run.”
Then, indeed, I stopped—in a state of fear really amounting to agony. I turned round, I saw the two doctors had got the king between them, and three attendants of Dr. Willis’s were hovering about. They all slackened their pace, as they saw me stand still; but such was the excess of my alarm, that I was wholly insensible to the effects of a race which, at any other time, would have required an hour’s recruit.
As they approached, some little presence of mind happily came to my command it occurred to me that, to appease the wrath of my flight, I must now show some confidence: I therefore faced them as undauntedly as I was able, only charging the nearest of the attendants to stand by my side.
When they were within a few yards of me, the king called out, “Why did you run away?”
Shocked at a question impossible to answer, yet a little assured by the mild tone of his voice, I instantly forced myself forward, to meet him, though the internal sensation which satisfied me this was a step the most proper, to appease his suspicions and displeasure, was so violently combated by the tremor of my nerves, that I fairly think I may reckon it the greatest effort of personal courage-I have ever made.
The effort answered: I looked up, and met all his wonted benignity of countenance, though something still of wildness in his eyes. Think, however, of my surprise, to feel him put both his hands round my two shoulders, and then kiss my cheek! I wonder I did not really sink, so exquisite was my affright when I saw him spread out his arms! Involuntarily, I concluded he meant to crush me: but the Willises, who have never seen him till this fatal illness, not knowing how very extraordinary an action this was from him, simply smiled and looked pleased, supposing, perhaps, it was his customary salutation!
I believe, however, it was but the joy of a heart unbridled, now, by the forms and proprieties of established custom and sober reason. To see any of his household thus by accident, seemed such a near approach to liberty and recovery, that who can wonder it should serve rather to elate than lessen what yet remains of his disorder!
He now spoke in such terms of his pleasure in seeing me, that I soon lost the whole of my terror; astonishment to find him so nearly well, and gratification to see him so pleased, removed every uneasy feeling, and the joy that succeeded, in my conviction of his recovery, made me ready to throw myself at his feet to express it.
What conversation followed! When he saw me fearless, he grew more and more alive, and made me walk close by his side, away from the attendants, and even the Willises themselves, who, to indulge him, retreated. I own myself not completely composed, but alarm I could entertain no more.
Everything that came uppermost in his mind he mentioned; he seemed to have just such remains of his flightiness as heated his imagination without deranging his reason, and robbed him of all control over his speech, though nearly in his perfect state Of mind as to his opinions. What did he not say!—He opened his whole heart to me,—expounded all his sentiments, and acquainted me with all his intentions.
The heads of his discourse I must give you briefly, as I am sure you will be highly curious to hear them, and as no accident can render of much consequence what a man says in such a state of physical intoxication. He assured me he was quite well—as well as he had ever been in his life; and then inquired how I did, and how I went on? and whether I was more comfortable? If these questions, in their implications, surprised me, imagine how that surprise must increase when he proceeded to explain them! He asked after the coadjutrix, laughing, and saying “Never mind her!—don’t be oppressed—I am your friend! don’t let her cast you down!—I know you have a hard time of it—but don’t mind her!”
Almost thunderstruck with astonishment, I merely curtsied to his kind “I am your friend,” and said nothing. Then presently he added, “Stick to your father—stick to your own family—let them be your objects.”
How readily I assented! Again he repeated all I have just written, nearly in the same words, but ended it more seriously: He suddenly stopped, and held me to stop too, and putting his hand on his breast. in the most solemn manner, he gravely and slowly said, “I will protect you!—I promise you that—and therefore depend upon me!”
I thanked him; and the Willises, thinking him rather too elevated, came to propose my walking on. “No, no, no!” he cried, a hundred times in a breath and their good humour prevailed, and they let him again walk on with his new Companion.
He then gave me a history of his pages, animating almost into a rage, as he related his subjects of displeasure with them, particularly with Mr. Ernst, who he told me had been brought up by himself. I hope his ideas upon these men are the result of the mistakes of his malady.
Then he asked me some questions that very greatly &stressed me, relating to information given him in his illness, from various motives, but which he suspected to be false, and which I knew he had reason to suspect: yet was It most dangerous to set anything right, as I was not aware what might be the views of their having been stated wrong. I was as discreet as I knew how to be, and I hope I did no mischief; but this was the worst part of the dialogue. He next talked to me a great deal of my dear father, and made a thousand inquiries concerning his “History of Music.” This brought him to his favourite theme, Handel; and he told me innumerable anecdotes of him, and particularly that celebrated tale of Handel’s saying of himself, when a boy, “While that boy lives, my music will never want a protector.” And this, he said, I might relate to my father. Then he ran over most of his oratorios, attempting to sing the subjects of several airs and choruses, but so dreadfully hoarse that the sound was terrible.
Dr. Willis, quite alarmed at this exertion, feared he would do himself harm, and again proposed a separation.
“No! no! no!” he exclaimed, “not yet; I have something I must just mention first.”
Dr. Willis, delighted to comply, even when uneasy at compliance, again gave way. The good king then greatly affected me. He began upon my revered old friend, Mrs. Delany and he spoke of her with such warmth—such kindness! “She was my friend!” he cried, “and I loved her as a friend! I have made a memorandum when I lost her—I will show it YOU.”
He pulled out a pocket-book, and rummaged some time, but to no purpose. The tears stood in his eyes—he wiped them, and Dr. Willis again became very anxious. “Come, sir,” he cried, “now do you come in and let the lady go on her walk, come, now you have talked a long while, so we’ll go in,—if your majesty pleases.”
“No, no!” he cried, “I want to ask her a few questions—I have lived so long out of the world, I know nothing!”
This touched me to the heart. We walked on together, and he inquired after various persons, particularly Mrs. Boscawen, because she was Mrs. Delany’s friend! Then, for the same reason, after Mr. Frederick Montagu,303 of whom he kindly said, “I know he has a great regard for me, for all he joined the opposition.” Lord Grey de Wilton, Sir Watkin Wynn, the Duke of Beaufort, and various others, followed. He then told me he was very much dissatisfied with several of his state officers, and meant to form an entire new establishment. He took a paper out of his pocket-book, and showed me his new list. This was the wildest thing that passed; and Dr. John Willis now seriously urged our separating; but he would not consent he had only three more words to say, he declared, and again he conquered.
He now spoke of my father, with still more kindness, and told me he ought to have had the post of master of the band, and not that little poor musician Parsons, who was not fit for it: “But Lord Salisbury,” he cried, “used your father very ill in that business, and so he did me! However, I have dashed out his name, and I shall put your father’s in,—as soon as I get loose again!”
This again—how affecting was this!
“And what,” cried he, “has your father got, at last? nothing but that poor thing at Chelsea?304 O fie! fie! fie! But never mind! I will take care of him. I will do it myself!” Then presently he added, “As to Lord Salisbury, he is out already, as this memorandum will show you, and so are many more. I shall be much better served and when once I get away, I shall rule with a rod of iron!”
This was very unlike himself, and startled the two good doctors, who could not bear to cross him, and were exulting at seeing his great amendment, but yet grew quite uneasy at his earnestness and volubility. Finding we now must part, he stopped to take leave, and renewed again his charges about the coadjutrix. “Never mind her!” he cried, “depend upon me! I will be your friend as long as I live—I here pledge myself to be your friend!” And then he saluted me again just as at the meeting, and suffered me to go on.
What a scene! how variously was I affected by it! but, upon the whole, how inexpressibly thankful to see him so nearly himself—so little removed from recovery!
I went very soon after to the queen to whom I was most eager to avow the meeting, and how little I could help it. Her astonishment, and her earnestness to hear every particular, were very great. I told her almost all. Some few things relating to the distressing questions I could not repeat nor many things said of Mrs. Schwellenberg, which would much, very needlessly, have hurt her.
This interview, and the circumstances belonging to it, excited general curiosity, and all the house watched for opportunities to beg a relation of it. How delighted was I to tell them all my happy prognostics!
But the first to hasten to hear of it was Mr. Smelt; eager and enchanted was the countenance and attention of that truly loyal and most affectionate adherent to his old master. He wished me to see Lady Harcourt and the general, and to make them a brief relation of this extraordinary rencounter but for that I had not effort enough left.
I did what I Could, however, to gratify the curiosity of Colonel Wellbred, which I never saw equally excited. I was passing him on the stairs, and he followed me, to say he had heard what had happened—I imagine from the Willises. I told him, with the highest satisfaction, the general effect produced upon my mind by the accident, that the king seemed so nearly, himself, that patience itself could have but little longer trial. He wanted to hear more particulars: I fancy the Willises had vaguely related some: “Did he not,” he cried, “promise to do something for you?” I only laughed, and answered, “O yes! if you want any thing, apply to me;—now is my time!”
Feb. 3.—-I had the great happiness to be assured this morning, by both the Dr. Willises, that his majesty was by no means the worse for our long conference. Those good men are inexpressibly happy themselves in the delightful conviction given me, and by me spread about, of the near recovery of their royal patient.
While I was dressing came Mr. Fairly: I could not admit him, but he said he would try again in the evening. I heard by the tone of his voice a peculiar eagerness, and doubted not he was apprized of my adventure.
He came early, before I could leave my fair companion, and sent on Goter. I found him reading a new pamphlet of Horne Tooke: “How long,” he cried, “it is since I have been here!”
I was not flippantly disposed, or I would have said I had thought the time he spent away always short, by his avowed eagerness to decamp.
He made so many inquiries of how I had gone on and what I had done since I saw him, that I was soon satisfied he was not uninformed of yesterday’s transaction. I told him so; he could not deny it, but wished to hear the whole from myself.
I most readily complied. He listened with the most eager, nay, anxious attention, scarce breathing: he repeatedly exclaimed, when I had finished, “How I wish I had been there! how I should have liked to have seen you!”
I assured him he would not wish that, if he knew the terror I had suffered. He was quite elated with the charges against Cerberic tyranny, and expressed himself gratified by the promises of favour and protection.