[The following section and the two sections which succeed
it, relate, almost exclusively, to Fanny's dreary prison-
life in the royal household. Of the world without the
palace, of the friends whom she had left, we hear next to
nothing. The change for her was complete; the rare visits
of her father, her sister, and the Lockes, one hasty
excursion to Chesington, and one delightful evening at Mrs.
Ord's, form nearly the sum total of her personal
intercourse, during these eighteen months, with those whose
kindness and sympathy had brightened her past years. She
complained seldom, and only to her best-beloved Susan, but
there is something truly pathetic in these occasional
evidences of the struggle which she was making to conquer
her repugnance, and to be happy, if that were possible, in
her new situation. Dazzled by the royal condescension Fanny
may have been; blinded she was not. It was her father who,
possessed by a strange infatuation, remained blind to the
incongruity, charmed by the fancied honour, of his
daughter's position; and she, tender-hearted as she was,
could not bear to inflict upon one so dear the pain which
she knew must be the consequence of his enlightenment.
Meanwhile, her best comfort was still in the friendship of
Mrs. Delany, and this, in the course of nature, could not be
of long duration.
But dreary as this life of routine was to the unfortunate
victim, we venture to assure the reader that he will find
the victim's account of it very far from dreary. Indeed,
these pages might almost be instanced to show from what
unpromising materials a person endowed with humour and
observation can construct a singularly entertaining
narrative. Our wonder is that neither the monotony of her
official duties, nor the insipidity of her associates, nor
even the odious tyranny of her colleague, could wholly
subdue in the author of “Evelina” and “Cecilia” that bright
and humorous disposition to which the following pages bear
frequent testimony.--ED.]