We then talked of Mr. Burke. “How finely,” I cried, “he has spoken! with what fullness of intelligence, and what fervour!” He agreed, with delighted concurrence. “Yet,—so much so long!” I added.
“True!” cried he, ingenuously, yet concerned. “What pity he can never stop!”
And then I enumerated some of the diffuse and unnecessary paragraphs which had weakened his cause, as well as his speech.
He was perfectly candid, though always with some reluctance. “But a man who speaks in public,” he said, “should never forget what will do for his auditors: for himself alone, it is not enough to think; but for what is fitted, and likely to be interesting to them.”
“He wants nothing,” cried I, “but a flapper.”
“Yes, and he takes flapping inimitably.”
“You, then,” I cried, “should be his flapper.”
“And sometimes,” said he, smiling, “I am.”
“O, I often see,” said I, “of what use you are to him. I see you watching him,—reminding, checking him in turn,—at least, I fancy all this as I look into the managers’ box, which is no small amusement to me,—when there is any commotion there!”
He bowed; but I never diminished from the frank unfriendliness to the cause with which I began. But I assured him I saw but too well how important and useful he was to them, even without speaking.
“Perhaps,” cried he, laughing, “more than with speaking.”
“I am not meaning to talk Of that now,” said I, “but yet, one thing I will tell you: I hear you more distinctly than any one; the rest I as often miss as catch, except when they turn this way,—a favour Which you never did me!”
“No, no, indeed!” cried he; “to abstract myself from all, is all that enables me to get on.” And then, with his native candour, he cast aside prejudice, and very liberally praised several points in this poor persecuted great man.
“I had seen,” I said, “an initiation from Horace, which had manifested, I presumed, his scholarship.”
“O, ay,” cried he, “an Ode to Mr. Shore, who is one of the next witnesses. Burke was going to allude to it, but I begged him not. I do not like to make their lordships smile in this grave business.”
“That is so right!” cried I: “Ah, you know it is you and your attack I have feared most all along!”
“This flattery”—cried he.
“Do not use that word any more, Mr. Windham,” interrupted I; “if you do, I shall be tempted to make a very shocking speech to you—the very reverse of flattery, I assure you.” He stared,—and I went on. “I shall say,—that those who think themselves flattered—flatter themselves!”
“What?—hey?—How?” cried he.
“Nay, they cannot conclude themselves flattered, without concluding they have de quoi to make it worth while!”
“Why, there—there may be something In that but not here!—no, here it must flow simply front general benevolence,—from a wish to give comfort or pleasure.”
I disclaimed all and turned his attention again to Mr. Hastings. “See!” I cried, “see but how thin—how ill—looks that poor little uncle of yours!”332 Again I upbraided him with being unnatural; and lamented Mr. Hastings’s change since I had known him in former days. “And shall I tell you,” I added, “something in which you had nearly been involved with him?”
“Me?—with Mr. Hastings?”
“Yes! and I regret it did not happen! You may recollect my mentioning my original acquaintance with him, before I lived where I now do.”
“Yes, but where you now... I understand you,—expect ere long you may see him!”
He meant from his acquittal, and reception at the Queen’s house. And I would not contradict him.
“But, however,” I continued, “my acquaintance and regard began very fairly while I lived at home at my father’s and indeed I regret you could not then and so have known him, as I am satisfied you would have been pleased with him, which now you cannot judge. He is so gentle-mannered, so intelligent, so unassuming, yet so full-minded.”
“I have understood that,” he answered; “yet ’tis amazing how little unison there may be between mariners and characters, and how softly gentle a man may appear without, whose nature within is all ferocity and cruelty. This is a part of mankind of which you cannot judge—of which, indeed, you can scarce form an idea.”
After a few comments I continued what I had to say, which, in fact, was nothing but another malice of my own against him. I reminded him of one day in a former year of this trial, when I had the happiness of sitting at it with my dearest Mrs. Locke, in which he had been so obliging, with reiterated offers, as to propose seeing for my servant, etc.—
“Well,” I continued, “I was afterwards extremely sorry I had not accepted your kindness; for just as we were going away, who should be passing, and turn back to speak to me, but Mr. Hastings! ‘O!’ he cried, ‘I must come here to see you, I find!’ Now, had you but been with me at that moment! I own it would have been the greatest pleasure to me to have brought you together though I am quite at a loss to know whether I ought, in that case, to have presented you to each other.”
He laughed most heartily,-half, probably, with joy at his escape; but he had all his wits about him in his answer. “If you,” he cried, “had been between US, we might, for once, have coalesced—in both bowing to the same shrine!”
[The following section concludes the story of Fanny’s life at Court. Her entire unfitness for the position which she there occupied had been, from the commencement, no secret to herself; but her tenderness for her father had determined her to endure to the utmost before resigning a place to which her appointment had been to him, in his short-sighted folly, a source of such extreme gratification. But now she could endure no longer. The occasional relief which she had found in the society of Mrs. Delany and Colonel Digby had been brought to an end by the death of the one and the marriage of the other; her spirits were broken, her state of health was becoming daily more alarming and she at last summoned up courage to consult her father on the subject, and to make known to him her desire of resigning. Blind as he had shown himself to the true interests of his daughter, Dr. Burney was still the most affectionate of parents. He heard Fanny’s complaint with grief and disappointment, but with instant acquiescence in her wishes. His consent to her plan being obtained, Fanny for some months took no further steps in the matter. She was willing to remain at her post so long as she was capable, with whatever difficulty, of supporting its fatigues. But her health failed more and more, and the memorial was at last (December, 1790) presented to the queen. Even yet the day of release was far distant. The “sweet queen” was in no hurry to part with so faithful a servant, and although she had accepted the resignation, she did not conceal her displeasure at being reminded of it. Meanwhile the unfortunate victim of royal selfishness was growing daily weaker. Her friends were seriously alarmed: even her fellow-slaves at Court commiserated her, and urged her retirement. A successor was at length appointed, and on the 7th of July, 1791, Fanny found herself once more free. During the interval which elapsed between the consultation with Dr. Burney and the presentation of the memorial, an incident occurred which occasioned to Fanny much distress and not a little annoyance. Her own narrative of the affair we have not thought it necessary to include in our selection from the “Diary,” but here a few words on the subject may be not unacceptable. Fanny’s man-servant, a Swiss named Jacob Columb, had fallen dangerously ill in the summer of 1790, and was sent, in August, to St. George’s Hospital. He was much attached to his mistress, who, he said, had treated him with greater kindness than father, mother, or any of his relatives, and on leaving Windsor he begged her to hold in trust for him the little money in his possession, amounting to ten guineas. She offered him a receipt for the money, but he refused it, and when she insisted, exclaimed, “No, ma’am, I won’t take it! You know what it is, and I know what it is; and if I live I’m sure you won’t wrong me: and if I don’t, nobody else sha’n’t have it!” Moved to tears by the poor fellow’s earnestness, Fanny complied with his request. In the following month he died at the hospital, desiring, in his last moments, to leave everything to his sisters in Switzerland. “He certainly meant,” writes Fanny, “everything of his wearing apparel, watches, etc., for what money he had left in my hands he would never tell anybody.” She was preparing, accordingly, to transmit Columb’s effects, including, of course, the ten guineas, to Switzerland, when a claimant appeared in the person of Peter Bayond, a countryman of the deceased. This man produced a will, purporting to be Columb’s, by which the property was left to be divided between Bayond himself and James Columb, a cousin of the pretended testator, then in service with Horace Walpole. Fanny’s instant conviction was that the will was a forgery, and the appearance and behaviour of Bayond confirmed her in this belief. James Columb, moreover, concurred in her opinion, and she had decided to ignore this new claim, when she received an attorney’s letter, desiring her to pay to Bayond the sum in her hands of the late Jacob Columb. She then wrote to Walpole, who offered her his assistance, with many expressions of warm regard. But finally, after much trouble, and threats of a lawsuit, she was advised that her best plan would be to let the will take its course, and to pay over to the claimant the sum in question; and thus the matter was settled, “in a manner,” she writes, “the most mortifying to Mr. Walpole and myself."-ED.]
May 25.—The Princess Augusta condescended to bring me a most gracious message from the king, desiring to know if I wished to go to Handel’s Commemoration, and if I should like the “Messiah,” or prefer any other day?
With my humble acknowledgments for his goodness, I fixed instantly on the “Messiah” and the very amiable princess came smiling back to me, bringing me my ticket from the king. This would not, indeed, much have availed me, but that I fortunately knew my dear father meant to go to the Abbey. I despatched Columb to Chelsea, and he promised to call for me the next morning.
My “Visions” I had meant to produce in a few days; and to know their chance before I left town for the summer.333 But I thought the present opportunity not to be slighted, for some little opening, that might lighten the task of the exordium upon the day of attempt. He was all himself—all his native self—kind, gay, open, and full fraught with converse.
Chance favoured me: we found so little room, that we were fain to accept two vacant places at once, though they separated us from my uncle, Mr. Burney, and his brother James, who were all there, and all meant to be of the same party.
I might not, at another time, have rejoiced in this disunion, but it was now most opportune: it gave me three hours’ conference with my dearest father—the only conference of that length I have had in four years.
Fortune again was kind; for my father began relating various anecdotes of attacks made upon him for procuring to sundry strangers some acquaintance with his daughter,334 particularly with the Duchesse de Biron, and the Mesdames de Boufflers335 to whom he answered, he had no power; but was somewhat struck by the question of Madame de B. in return, who exclaimed, “Mais, monsieur, est-ce possible! Mademoiselle votre fille n’a-t-elle point de vacance?"336
This led to much interesting discussion, and to many confessions and explanations on my part, never made before; which induced him to enter more fully into the whole of the situation, and its circumstances, than he had ever yet had the leisure or the spirits to do; and he repeated sundry speeches of discontent at my seclusion from the world.
All this encouraged me to much detail: I spoke my high and constant veneration for my royal mistress, her merits, her virtues, her condescension, and her even peculiar kindness towards me. But I owned the species of life distasteful to me; I was lost to all private comfort, dead to all domestic endearment; I was worn with want of rest, and fatigued with laborious watchfulness and attendance. My time was devoted to official duties; and all that in life was dearest to me—my friends, my chosen society, my best affections—lived now in my mind only by recollection, and rested upon that with nothing but bitter regret. With relations the most deservedly dear, with friends of almost unequalled goodness, I lived like an orphan-like one who had no natural ties, and must make her way as she could by those that were factitious. Melancholy was the existence where happiness was excluded, though not a complaint could be made! where the illustrious personages who were served possessed almost all human excellence, yet where those who were their servants, though treated with the most benevolent condescension, could never, in any part of the live-long day, command liberty, or social intercourse, or repose.
The silence of my dearest father now silencing myself, I turned to look at him; but how was I struck to see his honoured head bowed down almost into his bosom with dejection and discomfort!—we were both perfectly still a few moments; but when he raised his head I could hardly keep my seat, to see his eyes filled with tears!—“I have long,” he cried, “been uneasy, though I have not spoken; but if you wish to resign, my house, my purse, my arms, shall be open to receive you, back;" The emotion of my whole heart at this speech-this sweet, this generous speech—O my dear friends, I need not say it.
We were mutually forced to break up our conference. I could only instantly accept his paternal offer, and tell him it was my guardian angel, it was Providence in its own benignity, that inspired him with such goodness. I begged him to love the day in which he had given me such comfort, and assured him it would rest upon my heart with grateful pleasure till it ceased to beat.
He promised to drink tea with me before I left town, and settle all our proceedings. I acknowledged my intention to have ventured to solicit this very permission of resigning. “But I,” cried he, smiling with the sweetest kindness, “have spoken first myself.”
What a joy to me, what a relief, this very circumstance! it will always lighten any evil that may, unhappily, follow this proposed step.
June.—I went again to the trial of poor Mr. Hastings: Mrs. Ord received from me my companion ticket, kindly giving up the Duke of Newcastle’s box to indulge me with her company.
But I must mention an extraordinary circumstance that happened in the last week. I received in a parcel—No, I will recite it you as I told it to Mr. Windham, who, fortunately, saw and came up to me—fortunately, I say, as the business of the day was very unedifying, and as Mrs. Ord much wished to hear some of his conversation.
He inquired kindly about James and his affairs, and if he had yet a ship; and, to let him see a person might reside in a Court, and yet have no undue influence, I related his proceedings with Lord Chatham, and his laconic letter and interview. The first running thus:—
“My Lord,—I should be glad of an audience; if your Lordship will be so good to appoint a time, I will wait upon you. I am, my Lord, your humble servant, James Burney.”
“And pray,” quoth I to James, when he told me this, “did you not say the honour of an audience?” “No,” answered he, “I was civil enough without that; I said, If you will be so good—that was very civil—and honour is quite left off now.”
How comic! to run away proudly from forms and etiquettes, and then pretend it was only to be more in the last mode. Mr. Windham enjoyed this characteristic trait very much; and he likes James so well that he deserved it, as well as the interview which ensued.
“How do you do, Captain Burney?”
“My lord, I should be glad to be employed.”
“You must be sensible, Captain Burney, we have many claimants just now, and more than it is possible to satisfy immediately.”
“I am very sensible of that, my lord; but, at the same time, I wish to let your lordship know what I should like to have—a frigate of thirty-two guns.”
“I am very glad to know what you wish, sir.”
He took out his pocket-book, made a memorandum, and wished James a good morning.
Whether or not it occurred to Mr. Windham, while I told this, that there seemed a shorter way to Lord Chatham, and one more in his own style, I know not: he was too delicate to let such a hint escape, and I would not for the world intrust him with my applications and disappointments.
“But I have found,” cried I afterwards, “another newspaper praise for you now, ‘Mr. Windham, with his usual vein of irony.’”
“O, yes,” cried he, “I saw that! But what can it mean?—I use no ‘vein of irony;’—I dislike it, except for peculiar purposes, keenly handled, and soon passed over.”
“Yet this is the favourite panegyric you receive continually,—this, or logic, always attends your name in the newspapers.”
“But do I use it?”
“Nay, not to me, I own. As a manner, I never found it out, at least. However, I am less averse now than formerly to the other panegyric—close logic,—for I own the more frequently I come hither the more convinced I find myself that that is no character of commendation to be given universally.”
He could say nothing to this; and really the dilatory, desultory style of these prosecutors in general deserved a much deeper censure.
“If a little closeness of logic and reasoning were observed by one I look at now, what a man would he be, and who could compare with him!” Mr. Burke you are sure was here my object; and his entire, though silent and unwilling, assent was obvious.
“What a speech,” I continued, “has he lately made!337 how noble, how energetic, how enlarged throughout!”
“O,” cried he, very unaffectedly, “upon the French Revolution?”
“Yes; and any party might have been proud of it, for liberality, for feeling, for all in one—genius. I, who am only a reader of detached speeches, have read none I have thought its equal.”
“Yet, such as you have seen it, it does not do him justice. I was not in the House that day; but I am assured the actual speech, as he spoke it at the moment, was highly superior to what has since been printed. There was in it a force—there were shades of reflection so fine—allusions so quick and so happy—and strokes of satire and observation so pointed and so apt,—that it had ten times more brilliancy when absolutely extempore than when transmitted to paper.”
“Wonderful, wonderful! He is a truly wonderful creature!” And, alas, thought I, as wonderful in inconsistency as in greatness!
In the course of a discussion more detailed upon faculties, I ventured to tell him what impression they had made upon James, who was with me during one of the early long speeches. “I was listening,” I said, with the most fervent attention, “to such strokes of eloquence as, while I heard them, carried all before them, when my brother pulled me by the sleeve to exclaim, ‘When will he come to the point?’”
The justness, notwithstanding his characteristic conciseness, of this criticism, I was glad thus to convey. Mr. Windham however, would not subscribe to it; but, with a significant smile, coolly said, “Yes, ’tis curious to hear a man of war’s ideas of rhetoric.”
“Well,” quoth I, to make a little amends, “shall I tell you a compliment he paid you?”
“Me?”
“Yes. ‘He speaks to the purpose,’ he cried.”
Some time after, with a sudden recollection, he eagerly exclaimed, “O, I knew I had something I wished to tell you! I was the other day at a place to see Stuart’s Athenian architecture, and whom do you think I met in the room?”
I could not guess.
“Nay, ’tis precisely what you will like—Mr. Hastings!”
“Indeed!” cried I, laughing; “I must own I am extremely glad to hear it. I only wish you could both meet without either knowing the other.”
“Well, we behaved extremely well, I assure you; and looked each as if we had never seen one another before. I determined to let you know it.”...
The day after the birthday I had again a visit from Mrs. Fairly. I was in the midst of packing, and breakfasting, and confusion—for we left town immediately, to return no more till next year, except to St. James’s for the Drawing-room. However, I made her as welcome as I was able, and she was more soft and ingratiating in her manners than I ever before observed her. I apologised two or three times for not waiting upon her, representing my confined abilities for visiting.
August.-As I have only my almanac memorandums for this month, I shall hasten immediately to what I think my dear partial lecturers will find most to their taste in the course of it. Know then, fair ladies, about the middle of this August, 17 90, the author finished the rough first draft and copy of her first tragedy. What species of a composition it may prove she is very unable to tell; she only knows it was an almost spontaneous work, and soothed the melancholy of imagination for a while, though afterwards it impressed it with a secret sensation of horror, so like real woe, that she believes it contributed to the injury her sleep received about this period.
Nevertheless, whether well or ill, she is pleased to have done something at last, she had so long lived in all ways as nothing.
You will smile, however, at my next trust; but scarce was this completed,-as to design and scenery I mean, for the whole is in its first rough state, and legible only to herself, scarce, however, had this done with imagination, to be consigned over to correction, when imagination seized upon another subject for another tragedy.
The first therefore I have deposited in my strong-box, in all its imperfections, to attend to the other; I well know correction may always be summoned, Imagination never will come but by choice. I received her, therefore, a welcome guest,—the best adapted for softening weary solitude, where only coveted to avoid irksome exertion.
October.-I now drew up my memorial, or rather, showed it to my dearest father. He so much approved it, that he told me he would not have a comma of it altered. I will copy it for you. It is as respectful and as grateful as I had words at command to make it, and expressive of strong devotion and attachment; but it fairly and firmly states that my strength is inadequate to the duties of my charge, and, therefore, that I humbly crave permission to resign it and retire into domestic life. It was written in my father’s name and my own. I had now that dear father’s desire to present it upon the first auspicious moment: and O! with what a mixture of impatience and dread unspeakable did I look forward to such an opportunity!
The war was still undecided: still I inclined to wait its issue, as I perpetually brought in my wishes for poor James, though without avail. Major Garth, our last equerry, was raised to a high post in the West Indies, and the rank of colonel, I recommended James to his notice and regard if they met; and a promise most readily and pleasantly made to seek him out and present him to his brother, the general, if they ever served in the same district, was all, I think, that my Court residence obtained for my marine department of interest!
Meanwhile, one morning at Kew, Miss Cambridge was so much alarmed at my declining state of health that she would take no denial to my seeing and consulting Mr. Dundas. He ordered me the bark, and it strengthened me so much for awhile, that I was too much recruited for presenting my sick memorial, which I therefore cast aside.
Mrs. Ord spent near a week at Windsor in the beginning of this month. I was ill, however, the whole time, and suffered so much from my official duties, that my good Mrs. Ord, day after day, evidently lost something more and more of her partiality to my station, from witnessing fatigues of which she had formed no idea, and difficulties and disagreeabilities in carrying on a week’s intercourse, even with so respectable a friend, which I believe she had thought impossible.
Two or three times she burst forth into ejaculations strongly expressive of fears for my health and sorrow at its exhausting calls. I could not but be relieved in my own mind that this much-valued, most maternal friend should thus receive a conviction beyond all powers of representation, that my place was of a sort to require a strength foreign to my make.
She left me in great and visible uneasiness, and wrote to me continually for bills of health, I never yet so much loved her, for, kind as I have always found her, I never yet saw in her so much true tenderness.
In this month, also, I first heard of the zealous exertions and chivalrous intentions of Mr. Windham. Charles told me they never met without his demounting the whole thunders of his oratory against the confinement by which he thought my health injured; with his opinion that it must be counteracted speedily by elopement, no other way seeming effectual.
But with Charlotte he came more home to the point. Their vicinity in Norfolk occasions their meeting, though very seldom at the house of Mr. Francis, who resents his prosecution of Mr. Hastings, and never returns his visits; but at assemblies at Aylsham and at Lord Buckingham’s dinners they are certain of now and then encountering. This summer, when Mr. Windham went to Felbrig, his Norfolk seat, they soon met at an assembly, and he immediately opened upon his disapprobation of her sister’s monastic life, adding, “I do not venture to speak thus freely upon this subject to everybody, but to you I think I may; at least, I hope it.”
Poor dear Charlotte was too full-hearted for disguise, and they presently entered into a confidential cabal, that made her quite disturbed and provoked when hurried away. From this time, whenever they met, they were pretty much of a mind. “I cannot see you,” he always cried, “without recurring to that painful subject—your sister’s situation.” He then broke forth in an animated offer of his own services to induce Dr. Burney to finish such a captivity, if he could flatter himself he might have any influence.
Charlotte eagerly promised him the greatest, and he gave her his promise to go to work.
O What a noble Quixote! How much I feel obliged to him! How happy, when I may thank him!
He then pondered upon ways and means. He had already sounded my father: “but it is resolution,” he added, “not inclination, Dr. Burney wants.” After some further reflection, he then fixed upon a plan: “I will set the Literary Club338 upon him!” he cried: “Miss Burney has some very true admirers there, and I am sure they will all eagerly assist. We will present him a petition—an address.”
Much more passed: Mr. Windham expressed a degree of interest and kindness so cordial, that Charlotte says she quite longed to shake hands with him; and if any success ever accrues, she certainly must do it.
Frightened, however, after she returned home, she feared our dearest father might unfairly be overpowered, and frankly wrote him a recital of the whole, counselling him to see Mr. Windham in private before a meeting at the club should take place.
The beautiful chapel of St. George, repaired and finished by the best artists at an immense expense, which was now opened after a very long shutting up for its preparations, brought in- numerable strangers to Windsor, and, among others, Mr. Boswell.
This I heard, in my way to the chapel, from Mr. Turbulent, who overtook me, and mentioned having met Mr. Boswell at the Bishop of Carlisle’s the evening, before. He proposed bringing him to call upon me; but this I declined, certain how little satisfaction would be given here by the entrance of a man so famous for compiling anecdotes. But yet I really wished to see him again, for old acquaintance sake, and unavoidable amusement from his oddity and good humour, as well as respect for the object of his constant admiration, my revered Dr. Johnson. I therefore told Mr. Turbulent I should be extremely glad to speak with him after the service was over.
Accordingly, at the gate of the choir, Mr. Turbulent brought him to me. We saluted With mutual glee: his comic-serious face and manner have lost nothing of their wonted singularity nor yet have his mind and language, as you will soon confess.
“I am extremely glad to see you indeed,” he cried, “but very sorry to see you here. My dear ma’am, why do you stay?—it won’t do, ma’am! You must resign!—we can put up with it no longer. I told my good host the bishop so last night; we are all grown quite outrageous!”
Whether I laughed the most, or stared the most, I am at a loss to say, but i hurried away from the cathedral, not to have such treasonable declarations overheard, for we were surrounded by a multitude.
He accompanied me, however, not losing one moment in continuing his exhortations: “If you do not quit, ma’am, very soon, some violent measures, I assure you, will be taken. We shall address Dr. Burney in a body; I am ready to make the harangue myself. We shall fall upon him all at once.”
I stopped him to inquire about Sir Joshua; he said he saw him very often, and that his spirits were very good. I asked about Mr. Burke’s book.339 “O,” cried he “it Will come Out next week: ’tis the first book in the World, except my own, and that’s coming out also very soon; only I want your help.”
“My help?”
“Yes, madam,—you must give me some of your choice little notes of the doctor’s; we have seen him long enough upon stilts; I want to show him in a new light. Grave Sam, and great Sam, and solemn Sam, and learned Sam,—all these he has appeared over and over. Now I want to entwine a wreath of the graces across his brow; I want to show him as gay Sam, agreeable Sam, pleasant Sam; so you must help me with some of his beautiful billets to yourself.”
I evaded this by declaring I had not any stores at hand. He proposed a thousand curious expedients to get at them, but I was invincible.
Then I was hurrying on, lest I should be too late. He followed eagerly, and again exclaimed, “But, ma’am, as I tell you, this won’t do; you must resign off hand! Why, I would farm you out myself for double, treble the money! I wish I had the regulation of such a farm,—yet I am no farmer-general. But I should like to farm you, and so I will tell Dr. Burney. I mean to address him; I have a speech ready for the first opportunity.”
He then told me his “Life of Dr. Johnson” was nearly printed, and took a proof-sheet out of his pocket to show me; with crowds passing and repassing, knowing me well, and staring well at him: for we were now at the iron rails of the Queen’s lodge.
I stopped; I could not ask him in: I saw he expected it, and was reduced to apologise, and tell him I must attend the queen immediately.
He uttered again stronger and stronger exhortations for my retreat, accompanied by expressions which I was obliged to check in their bud. But finding he had no chance for entering, he stopped me again at the gate, and said he would read me a part of his work.
There was no refusing this: and he began with a letter of Dr. Johnson’s to himself. He read it in strong imitation of the doctor’s manner, very well, and not caricature. But Mrs. Schwellenberg was at her window, a crowd was gathering to stand round the rails, and the king and queen and royal family now approached from the Terrace. I made a rather quick apology, and, with a step as quick as my now weakened limbs have left in my power, I hurried to my apartment.
You may suppose I had inquiries enough, from all around, of “Who was the gentleman I was talking to at the rails?” And an injunction rather frank not to admit him beyond those limits.
However, I saw him again the next morning, in coming from early prayers, and he again renewed his remonstrances, and his petition for my letters of Dr. Johnson. I cannot consent to print private letters, even of a man so justly celebrated, when addressed to myself: no, I shall hold sacred those revered and but too scarce testimonies of the high honour his kindness conferred upon me. One letter I have from him that is a masterpiece of elegance and kindness united. ‘Twas his last.
November.—This month will be very brief of annals; I was so ill, so unsettled, so unhappy during every day, that I kept not a memorandum. All the short benefit I had received from the bark was now at an end: languor, feverish nights, and restless days were incessant. My memorial was always in my mind; my courage never rose to bringing it from my letter-case. Yet the war was over, the hope of a ship for my brother demolished, and my health required a change of life equally with my spirits and my happiness.
The queen was all graciousness; and her favour and confidence and smiles redoubled my difficulties. I saw she had no suspicion but that I was hers for life; and, unimportant as I felt myself to her, in any comparison with those for whom I quitted her, I yet knew not how to give her the unpleasant surprise of a resignation for which I saw her wholly unprepared..
It is true, my depression of spirits and extreme alteration of person might have operated as a preface; for I saw no one, except my royal mistress and Mrs. Schwellenberg, who noticed not the change, or who failed to pity and question me upon my health and my fatigues; but as they alone saw it not, or mentioned it not, that afforded me no resource. And thus, with daily intention to present my petition and conclude this struggle, night always returned with the effort unmade, and the watchful morning arose fresh to new purposes that seemed only formed for demolition. And the month expired as it began, with a desire the most strenuous of liberty and peace, combated by reluctance unconquerable to give pain, displeasure, or distress to my very gracious royal mistress.
December.-My loss of health was now so notorious, that no part of the house could wholly avoid acknowledging it; yet was the terrible picquet the catastrophe of every evening, though frequent pains in my side forced me, three or four times in a game, to creep to my own room for hartshorn and for rest. And so weak and faint I was become, that I was compelled to put my head out into the air, at all hours, and in all weathers, from time to time, to recover the power of breathing, which seemed not seldom almost withdrawn.
Her majesty was very kind during this time, and the princesses interested themselves about me with a sweetness very grateful to me; indeed, the whole household showed compassion and regard, and a general opinion that I was falling into a decline ran through the establishment.... Thus there seemed about my little person a universal commotion; and it spread much farther, amongst those I have never or slightly mentioned. There seemed, indeed, but one opinion, that resignation of place or of life was the only remaining alternative.
There seemed now no time to be lost when I saw my dear father he recommended to me to be speedy, and my mother was very kind in urgency for immediate measures. I could not, however, summon courage to present my memorial; my heart always failed me, from seeing the queen’s entire freedom from such an expectation: for though I was frequently so ill in her presence that I could hardly stand, I saw she concluded me, while life remained, inevitably hers.