Mrs. Delany—Her Childhood—Her First Marriage—Swift—Dr. Delany—The
Dowager Duchess of Portland—Mrs. Delany a Favourite at Court—Her
Flower-Work—Miss Burney’s First Visit to Mrs. Delany—Meets the Duchess
of Portland—Mrs. Sleepe—Crisp—Growth of Friendship with Mrs. Delany—
Society at her House—Mrs. Delany’s Reminiscences—The Lockes of Norbury
Park—Mr. Smelt—Dr. Burney has an Audience of the King and Queen—The
King’s Bounty to Mrs. Delany—Miss Burney Visits Windsor—Meets the King
and Queen—‘Evelina’—Invention Exhausted—The King’s Opinion of
Voltaire, Rousseau, and Shakespeare—The Queen and Bookstalls—
Expectation—Journey to Windsor—The Terrace—Dr. Burney’s
Disappointment—Proposal of the Queen to Miss Burney—Doubts and Fears—
An Interview—The Decision—Mistaken Criticism—Burke’s Opinion—A
Misconception—Horace Walpole’s Regret—Miss Burney’s Journals of her
Life at Court—Sketches of Character—The King and Queen—Mrs.
Schwellenberg—The Queen’s Lodge—Miss Burney’s Apartments—A Day’s
Duties—Royal Snuff—Fictitious Names in the Diary—The Princesses—A
Royal Birthday—A Walk on the Terrace—The Infant Princess Amelia.
We have mentioned Mrs. Delany in our list of the more remarkable friends
made by Miss Burney during the winter succeeding the publication of
‘Cecilia.’ Burke followed a fashion then prevalent when he pronounced
this venerable lady the fairest model of female excellence in the
previous age. Mrs. Delany owed her distinction in a great measure to the
favour which she enjoyed with the royal family. Born in 1700, she was
early instructed in the ways of a Court, having been brought up by an
aunt who had been maid-of-honour to Queen Mary, and had received for her
charge the promise of a similar employment in the household of Queen
Anne. Having missed this promotion, the girl next fell into the hands of
her uncle, George Granville, Lord Lansdowne, who, though celebrated by
Pope as ‘the friend of every Muse,’ was not gentleman enough to treat
his brother’s child with decent consideration. He forced Mary Granville,
at seventeen, into a marriage with Alexander Pendarves, a Cornish squire
near sixty, of drunken habits and morose manners, who sought the match
chiefly to disappoint his expectant heir. After a few years, this worthy
died of a fit, to the great relief of all belonging to him, but,
unfortunately for his wife, without having made the provision for her
which, to do him justice, he appears to have intended. Some time later
the widow paid a visit to Ireland, where she became acquainted with Dean
Swift, and his intimate associate, Dr. Patrick Delany, who was famed as
a scholar and preacher. After her return, Swift exchanged occasional
letters with her so long as he retained his reason. In 1743, Dr. Delany,
then himself a widower, came over to England to offer himself to her in
marriage. She accepted him, in spite of her family, whose high stomach
rose against a _mésalliance_ with an Irish parson. Their influence,
however, was subsequently used to procure for Delany the deanery of
Down. On his death, which occurred in 1768, Mrs. Delany settled in
London, and, at the time when Miss Burney was introduced to her, had a
house in St. James’s Place. Her most intimate friend was the old Duchess
of Portland, with whom she regularly spent the summer at her Grace’s
dower house of Bulstrode. There she was presented to George III. and his
Queen, both of whom conceived a strong regard for her. The King called
her his dearest Mrs. Delany, and in 1782 commissioned Opie to paint her
portrait, which was placed at Hampton Court.[61]
While Frances Burney was having her first interview with Mrs. Delany,
the Dowager Duchess of Portland condescended to appear upon the scene.
This exalted personage, we are given to understand, had a natural
aversion to female novel-writers, but, at her friend’s request,
consented to receive homage from the author of ‘Cecilia.’ Her curiosity,
in fact, got the better of her pride. Before her arrival, the
conversation turned on the flower-work for which Mrs. Delany was famous
among her acquaintances. This was a kind of paper mosaic, invented by
the old lady, and practised by her until her eyesight failed. Some
specimens of it were thought worthy of being offered, as a tribute of
humble duty, to Queen Charlotte. The admiration freely bestowed on this
trumpery, and the doubtful reception accorded to literary merit in a
woman, illustrate the tone which prevailed in the highest society a
hundred years ago. To cut out bits of coloured paper, and paste them
together on the leaf of an album so as to resemble flowers, was
considered a wonderful achievement even for a paragon of her sex. To
have written the best work of imagination that had proceeded from a
female pen was held to confer only an equivocal title to eminence. The
Duchess, however, exerted herself to be civil. ‘She was a simple woman,’
says Walpole; but she did her best. She joined Mrs. Delany in recalling
the characters that had pleased them most in ‘Cecilia;’ she dwelt on the
spirit of the writing, the fire in the composition, and, ‘with a solemn
sort of voice,’ declared herself gratified by the morality of the book,
‘so striking, so pure, so genuine, so instructive.’ Fanny, always
impressed by grandeur, eager after praise, thankful for notice, was
charmed with these compliments. She found her Grace’s manner not merely
free from arrogance, but ‘free also from its mortifying deputy,
affability.’ Yet the worship of rank, which belonged to that age, was,
in little Miss Burney, always subordinate to better feelings. In her
eyes the dignified visitor appeared by no means so interesting as her
hostess.[62] Nor was it any air of courtliness that attracted her in
Mrs. Delany, but a simple domestic association. Though not a person of
genius, or, it should seem, of any extraordinary cultivation, this
veteran of English and Irish society had preserved an unsullied, gentle,
kindly spirit which showed itself in her face and carriage. Fanny could
not remember to have seen so much sweetness of countenance in anyone
except her own grandmother, Mrs. Sleepe. She at once began to trace, or
to imagine, a resemblance between ‘that saint-like woman’ and her new
friend, and gave herself up to the tenderness which the current of her
thoughts excited.
Besides this similarity, she bethought her of another recollection which
she could with propriety impart to the ladies before her. She had often
heard Mr. Crisp speak of his former intercourse with the Duchess and
Mrs. Delany. The latter, she learned on inquiry, had been chiefly
intimate with Crisp’s sisters; but the Duchess had known Crisp himself
well, and was curious to learn what had become of so agreeable and
accomplished a man. Her questions gave the shy, silent Fanny a theme on
which she could enlarge with animation. ‘I spared not,’ she writes, ‘for
boasting of my dear daddy’s kindness to me.’ The accounts she had
received from the Crisp family, she told Mrs. Delany, had first made her
desire the acquaintance that day commenced. She ran on to relate the
story of Crisp’s disappearance, painted his way of life in his retreat,
and entertained the company with a description of Chesington Hall, its
isolated and lonely position, its ruinous condition, its nearly
inaccessible roads, its quaint old pictures, and straight long garden
paths.[63] Her flow of spirits banished all reserve, and that evening
laid the foundations of a friendship that partly consoled her for the
death of Crisp and the desertion of Mrs. Thrale.
The attachment between Mrs. Delany and the favourite of Chesington and
Streatham grew up rapidly. The entries in Fanny’s Diary show that she
very soon became a constant visitor in St. James’s Place. She is
flattered at being so much in favour there as to find its mistress
always eager to fix a time for their next and next meeting. Yet, while
profuse in praise of her venerable friend, she dwells more on the
qualities of the old lady’s heart than on any accomplishments of mind or
manner; she loves even more than she admires her; possibly some touches
of high-breeding were lost on the music-master’s daughter; at any rate,
the first impression abides with her, and in the noted pattern of
antique polish and taste[64] she sees always the image of the departed
Mrs. Sleepe.
Except in the presence of her young grand-niece Mary Port,[65] Mrs.
Delany’s house had little charm of liveliness. The chief persons that
frequented it belonged to the same generation as the Duchess of
Portland, who spent most of her evenings there. A sombre figure in that
peculiar assembly was Lady Wallingford, the impoverished widow of a
gaming peer, and a daughter of the speculator Law. This lady, who never
opened her lips, invariably appeared in full mourning dress, wearing a
black silk robe, a hoop, long ruffles, a winged cap, and other
appendages of an attire that even then was obsolete. Another visitor was
the Countess of Bute, wife of George III.’s early favourite, and
daughter of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. The elderly wit Horace Walpole
often joined a circle in which his old-fashioned pleasantry was still
received with the old applause. Fanny, who had met him elsewhere,
thought that he never showed to such advantage as when surrounded by
those stately dowagers. And while Horace, and most of the other callers,
had, more or less, the air of having outlived their age, the lady to
whom they paid their respects had passed the better portion of her life
in a still more remote period. She encouraged Miss Burney to turn over
Swift’s letters to her; and her most interesting anecdotes related to
the days of the Dean, and Pope, and Young.
Perhaps it was, in part, some memory of the time when she herself had
shared the talk of men of letters, that made her take to the young
writer who had done more to raise the literary credit of women than Mrs.
Montagu, or Hannah More, or the whole tribe of blue-stockings united.
The admired of Johnson, Burke and Reynolds was both a more entertaining
guest, and a greater ornament to her drawing-room, than the respectable
Mrs. Chapone, the learned Mrs. Carter, or even ‘the high-bred, elegant’
Mrs. Boscawen. And, whatever may have been said at a later date by
distant connections of Mrs. Delany, soured by a peevish family pride
which _she_ disdained, her own published letters prove that she not
merely appreciated Fanny’s talents, but understood and valued her
character. At one time she declares that ‘Evelina’ and ‘Cecilia,’
excellent as she finds them, are their author’s meanest praise, and goes
on to extol ‘her admirable understanding, tender affection and sweetness
of manners;’ after three years’ experience she writes of her companion:
‘Her extreme diffidence of herself, notwithstanding her great genius,
and the applause she has met with, adds lustre to all her excellences,
and all improve on acquaintance.’ It is scarcely too much to say that
the correspondence in which these lines occur would never have been
printed but for Miss Burney. The love and esteem expressed in her Diary
have almost alone saved Mrs. Delany’s name from utter oblivion; it would
be strange indeed had such regard gone unrequited by its object.
Frances Burney had certainly a remarkable capacity for friendship. Not
long after her introduction in St. James’s Place, she formed another
acquaintance, which ripened steadily, and became, on Mrs. Delany’s
death, the chief intimacy of her life outside her own family. It seems
to have been in the summer of 1783 that Dr. Burney and his now
celebrated daughter first met with Mr. and Mrs. Locke, of Norbury Park.
From some cause or other, we do not get so vivid a picture of these
worthy persons as we do of most of Fanny’s other friends. This is
perhaps partly explained by the fact that Mr. Locke was a man of
reserved and retiring temperament. But though silent in general society,
he had a benevolent heart and a cultivated taste; was a great lover of
the picturesque, and a collector of works of art. Dr. Burney paid his
first visit to Norbury in company with Sir Joshua Reynolds; and many
years afterwards Sir Thomas Lawrence told Madame d’Arblay that in all
his experience he had never seen a second Mr. Locke. The eldest son of
the house, William Locke, was an amateur artist of some skill. Miss
Burney’s particular friend was, naturally, Mrs. Locke. The sketch
transmitted to us of this lady is even more faint than that of her
husband, whom, we are told, she strongly resembled. She was lovely, of
course, and amiable: Fanny sometimes calls her bewitching; but we search
in vain for anything more distinctive. After the summer of 1784, Miss
Burney, except during her employment at Court, was often at Norbury. It
pleased her to think that when there she was only six miles from
Chesington. And while the place was still new to her, her sister Susan,
who had been abroad for her health, returned, and settled with her
husband, Captain Phillips, in the village of Mickleham, hard by the
gates of Norbury Park. Thenceforth the Park banished all regrets for
Streatham. The Thrales themselves were never more hospitable or kinder
than the excellent Lockes proved to be. If we cannot get to know the
latter as we know the former, it is a satisfaction, at least, to learn
that Mr. Smelt, who had been sub-governor to the Prince of Wales, spoke
of them to Fanny as ‘that divine family.’
Mr. Smelt, previously a slight acquaintance of the Burneys, had lately
shown a disposition to cultivate their society. Such attention on the
part of a confidential royal servant, though easily accounted for by the
fame of ‘Cecilia,’ was among the omens which befell about this time of
what the fates had in store for the author. Another premonitory incident
occurred at the beginning of 1785, when Dr. Burney was admitted to a
private audience of the King and Queen, in order that he might present
to them copies of his narrative of the Handel Commemoration, which had
taken place in the preceding year. The good-natured monarch, according
to his wont on such occasions, entered into a familiar and discursive
conversation with the Doctor. The last topic discussed was the story of
the publication of Evelina. ‘And is it true,’ asked the King eagerly,
‘that you never saw Evelina before it was printed?’ ‘Nor even till long
after it was published,’ was the reply. The King then drew from the
gratified father a detailed account of Evelina’s first introduction to
the world, which, as the Doctor reported, afforded the greatest
amusement to the Queen, as well as to his inquiring Majesty.
The old Duchess of Portland died in July, 1785. Her will made no
provision for her older friend, whom no doubt she had expected to
survive; and this accident indirectly determined the great mistake of
Miss Burney’s life. The loss of her summer quarters at Bulstrode, which
for the half of every year had been her constant home, was a serious
inconvenience for Mrs. Delany, whose income barely sufficed for the
maintenance of her London establishment during the winter. Informed of
this, the King caused a house belonging to the Crown at Windsor, near
the Castle, to be fitted up for the use of his aged favourite, and
settled a pension of three hundred pounds a year upon her for the rest
of her days, that she might be enabled to enjoy a country life without
giving up her accustomed residence in St. James’s Place. The royal
bounty was so complete that Mrs. Delany’s maid was commanded to see that
her mistress brought nothing with her but her clothes: everything else
was to be provided; and when supplies were exhausted, the abigail was to
make a requisition for more. The King himself superintended the workmen:
when his new neighbour arrived, he was on the spot to welcome her; and
she found that her benefactor had not only caused the house to be
furnished with plate, china, glass, and linen, but the cellars to be
stocked with wine, and the cupboards stored with sweetmeats and
pickles.[66] Such was the plainness, and such the generosity, of George
III.
Miss Burney was on a visit to her friend while these arrangements were
in progress; when the latter left London for Windsor, she herself went
to her father at Chesington Hall, in which old haunt Dr. Burney was then
employed on his still unfinished History. In the following December,
Fanny rejoined Mrs. Delany at Windsor, and during her stay there was
introduced to the King and Queen. It seems that etiquette forbade her
being formally presented to them, except at a drawing-room; but they
were desirous of making her acquaintance, and it was at length arranged
that when next their Majesties called on her hostess, as they were in
the habit of doing, she should remain in the room. On the first occasion
that occurred, her courage failed her at the critical moment, and she
fled. A few days later, Mrs. Delany returned from her afternoon nap to
find her nephew, Mr. Bernard Dewes, his little daughter, and Miss Port,
engaged in the drawing-room with Miss Burney, who was teaching the child
some Christmas games, in which her father and cousin joined. The Diary
proceeds:
“We were all in the middle of the room, and in some confusion;—but she
had but just come up to us to inquire what was going forwards, and I
was disentangling myself from Miss Dewes, to be ready to fly off if
anyone knocked at the street-door, when the door of the drawing-room
was again opened, and a large man, in deep mourning, appeared at it,
entering and shutting it himself without speaking.
“A ghost could not more have scared me, when I discovered by its
glitter on the black, a star! The general disorder had prevented his
being seen, except by myself, who was always on the watch, till Miss
Port, turning round, exclaimed, ‘The King!—Aunt, the King!’
“Oh, mercy! thought I, that I were but out of the room! which way
shall I escape? and how pass him unnoticed? There is but the single
door at which he entered, in the room! Everyone scampered out of the
way: Miss Port, to stand next the door; Mr. Bernard Dewes to a corner
opposite it; his little girl clung to me; and Mrs. Delany advanced to
meet his Majesty, who, after quietly looking on till she saw him,
approached, and, inquired how she did.
“He then spoke to Mr. Bernard, whom he had already met two or three
times here.
“I had now retreated to the wall, and purposed gliding softly, though
speedily, out of the room; but before I had taken a single step, the
King, in a loud whisper to Mrs. Delany, said, ‘Is that Miss Burney?’—
and on her answering, ‘Yes, sir,’ he bowed, and with a countenance of
the most perfect good humour, came close up to me.”
Having put a question to her, and received an inaudible reply, he went
back to Mrs. Delany, and spoke of the Princess Elizabeth, who,
incredible as it sounds, was then recovering from an illness after
having been blooded twelve times in a fortnight:
“A good deal of talk then followed about his own health, and the
extreme temperance by which he preserved it. The fault of his
constitution, he said, was a tendency to excessive fat, which he kept,
however, in order by the most vigorous exercise, and the strictest
attention to a simple diet.
“When Mrs. Delany was beginning to praise his forbearance, he stopped
her.
“‘No, no,’ he cried, ‘’tis no virtue; I only prefer eating plain and
little, to growing diseased and infirm.’
“During this discourse, I stood quietly in the place where he had
first spoken to me. His quitting me so soon, and conversing freely and
easily with Mrs. Delany, proved so delightful a relief to me, that I
no longer wished myself away; and the moment my first panic from the
surprise was over, I diverted myself with a thousand ridiculous
notions of my own situation.
“The Christmas games we had been showing Miss Dewes, it seemed as if
we were still performing, as none of us thought it proper to move,
though our manner of standing reminded one of Puss in the corner.
Close to the door was posted Miss Port; opposite her, close to the
wainscot, stood Mr. Dewes; at just an equal distance from him, close
to a window, stood myself; Mrs. Delany, though seated, was at the
opposite side to Miss Port; and his Majesty kept pretty much in the
middle of the room. The little girl, who kept close to me, did not
break the order, and I could hardly help expecting to be beckoned,
with a puss! puss! puss! to change places with one of my neighbours.
“This idea, afterwards, gave way to another more pompous. It seemed to
me we were acting a play. There is something so little like common and
real life, in everybody’s standing, while talking, in a room full of
chairs, and standing, too, so aloof from each other, that I almost
thought myself upon a stage, assisting in the representation of a
tragedy—in which the King played his own part of the king; Mrs. Delany
that of a venerable confidante; Mr. Dewes, his respectful attendant;
Miss Port, a suppliant virgin, waiting encouragement to bring forward
some petition; Miss Dewes, a young orphan, intended to move the royal
compassion; and myself, a very solemn, sober, and decent mute.
“These fancies, however, only regaled me while I continued a quiet
spectator, and without expectation of being called into play. But the
King, I have reason to think, meant only to give me time to recover
from my first embarrassment; and I feel myself infinitely obliged to
his good breeding and consideration, which perfectly answered, for
before he returned to me I was entirely recruited....
“The King went up to the table, and looked at a book of prints, from
Claude Lorraine, which had been brought down for Miss Dewes; but Mrs.
Delany, by mistake, told him they were for me. He turned over a leaf
or two, and then said:
“‘Pray, does Miss Burney draw too?’
“The _too_ was pronounced very civilly.
“‘I believe not, sir,’ answered Mrs. Delany; ‘at least, she does not
tell.’
“‘Oh!’ cried he, laughing, ‘that’s nothing! She is not apt to tell;
she never does tell, you know! Her father told me that himself. He
told me the whole history of her Evelina. And I shall never forget his
face when he spoke of his feelings at first taking up the book!—he
looked quite frightened, just as if he was doing it that moment! I
never can forget his face while I live!’
“Then coming up close to me, he said:
“‘But what?—what?—how was it?’
“‘Sir,’ cried I, not well understanding him.
“‘How came you—how happened it?—what?—what?
“‘I—I only wrote, sir, for my own amusement—only in some odd, idle
hours.’
“‘But your publishing—your printing—how was that?’
“‘That was only, sir—only because——’
“I hesitated most abominably, not knowing how to tell him a long
story, and growing terribly confused at these questions—besides, to
say the truth, his own “what? what?” so reminded me of those vile
Probationary Odes,[67] that, in the midst of all my flutter, I was
really hardly able to keep my countenance.
“The _What!_ was then repeated with so earnest a look, that, forced to
say something, I stammeringly answered:
“‘I thought—sir—it would look very well in print!’
“I do really flatter myself this is the silliest speech I ever made! I
am quite provoked with myself for it; but a fear of laughing made me
eager to utter anything, and by no means conscious, till I had spoken,
of what I was saying.
“He laughed very heartily himself—well he might—and walked away to
enjoy it, crying out:
“‘Very fair indeed! that’s being very fair and honest!’
“Then, returning to me again, he said:
“‘But your father—how came you not to show him what you wrote?’
“‘I was too much ashamed of it, sir, seriously.’
“Literal truth that, I am sure.
“‘And how did he find it out?’
“‘I don’t know myself, sir. He never would tell me.’...
“‘What entertainment you must have had from hearing people’s
conjectures before you were known! Do you remember any of them?’...
“‘I heard that Mr. Baretti laid a wager it was written by a man; for
no woman, he said, could have kept her own counsel.’
“This diverted him extremely.
“‘But how was it,’ he continued, ‘you thought most likely for your
father to discover you?’
“‘Sometimes, sir, I have supposed I must have dropped some of the
manuscript: sometimes, that one of my sisters betrayed me.’
“‘Oh! your sister?—what, not your brother?’
“‘No, sir; he could not, for——’
“I was going on, but he laughed so much I could not be heard,
exclaiming:
“‘Vastly well! I see you are of Mr. Baretti’s mind, and think your
brother could keep your secret, and not your sister.... But you have
not kept your pen unemployed all this time?’
“‘Indeed I have, sir.’
“‘But why?’
“‘I—I believe I have exhausted myself, sir.’
“He laughed aloud at this, and went and told it to Mrs. Delany,
civilly treating a plain fact as a mere _bon mot_.”
The King asked several other questions about Evelina, and the prospect
of anything further appearing from the author’s pen. A change of subject
led to the mention of hunting, when, looking round on the party, he
said: ‘Did you know that Mrs. Delany once hunted herself, and in a long
gown and a great hoop?’ As he spoke, a violent thunder was heard at the
door. Fanny again felt herself sinking into the carpet. Miss Port slid
out of the room backwards, and lights shone in the hall. Enter the
Queen. Her Majesty drops a profound reverence to the King, holds out
both hands to her dear Mrs. Delany, and then turns her face on the
short-sighted stranger, who, uncertain whether she has received a salute
or not, is bewildered what to do. The King comes to her relief, repeats
to his consort all that Miss Burney has already told him, and proceeds
with a further catechism. The Queen, more curious about the future than
the past, has questions of her own to put. ‘Shall we have no more?—
nothing more?’ she asks. Fanny can only shake her head in reply, and
when gracious phrases of regret and encouragement are uttered, is unable
to find a word of acknowledgment. Presently the conversation, becoming
general, ranges over a variety of topics, from the exemplary behaviour
of the Princess Sophia, aged nearly nine, in guarding her music-master’s
great nose from ridicule, to Bishop Porteous’s sermons, which the King
thought that admired preacher would do wrong to publish, because every
discourse printed would diminish his stock for the pulpit.
Three days later the King made an evening visit. The Diary describes the
mode of his reception on these occasions. ‘The etiquette always observed
on his entrance is, first of all, to fly off to distant quarters; and
next, Miss Port goes out, walking backwards, for more candles, which she
brings in, two at a time, and places upon the tables and pianoforte.
Next she goes out for tea, which she then carries to his Majesty, upon a
large salver, containing sugar, cream, and bread and butter and cake,
while she hangs a napkin over her arm for his fingers. This, it seems,
is a ceremony performed, in other places, always by the mistress of the
house; but here neither of their Majesties will permit Mrs. Delany to
attempt it.’ While drinking his tea, the King ran on, in his usual
discursive vein, about authors, actors, books, and plays. Concerning the
tendency of Voltaire’s works, and the personal character of Rousseau, he
expressed the current opinions of English society; calling the former a
monster, and telling anecdotes to illustrate ‘the savage pride and
insolent ingratitude’ of the latter. He vexed Miss Burney by pronouncing
Mrs. Siddons the most excellent player of his time, not even excepting
the divine Garrick. From players he went to plays, and having deplored
the immorality of the old English comedies, and the poverty of the new
ones, he came at length to Shakspeare.
“‘Was there ever,’ cried he, ‘such stuff as great part of Shakspeare?
only one must not say so! But what think you? What? Is there not sad
stuff? What? What?’
“‘Yes, indeed, I think so, sir, though mixed with such excellences,
that——’
“‘Oh!’ cried he, laughing good-humouredly; ‘I know it is not to be said!
but it’s true. Only it’s Shakspeare, and nobody dares abuse him.’
“Then he enumerated many of the characters and parts of plays that he
objected to; and, when he had run them over, finished with again
laughing, and exclaiming: ‘But one should be stoned for saying so!’”
The following afternoon, the Queen came, and was also in a mood for
literary criticism. She talked of the ‘Sorrows of Werter,’ and
Klopstock’s ‘Messiah,’ and mentioned, with praise, another book, saying:
‘I picked it up on a stall. Oh, it is amazing what good books there are
on stalls!’
‘It is amazing to me,’ said Mrs. Delany, ‘to hear that.’
‘Why, I don’t pick them up myself; but I have a servant very clever; and
if they are not to be had at the bookseller’s, they are not for me any
more than for another.’
In May, 1786, the Mastership of the King’s Band, which had formerly been
promised to Dr. Burney, once more became vacant. The Doctor was again a
candidate for the appointment. We gather from his having accepted so
small a post as that of Organist to Chelsea Hospital, and from some
other indications, that his circumstances had not improved as he grew
older. He was now sixty years of age: he must have found the work of
tuition at once less easy to be met with, and more laborious to
discharge, than it had been in his younger days; we cannot be mistaken
in supposing that he was eager to obtain, not merely promotion, but also
some permanent and lighter occupation. In his anxiety he had recourse to
Mr. Smelt, who counselled him to go to Windsor, not to address the King,
but to be seen by him. ‘Take your daughter in your hand,’ said the
experienced courtier, ‘and walk upon the Terrace. Your appearing there
at this time the King will understand, and he is more likely to be
touched by such a hint than by any direct application.’ Burney lost no
time in acting on the advice thus given. When he and Fanny reached the
Terrace in the evening, they found the Royal Family already there. The
King and Queen, the Queen’s mother, and the Prince of Mecklenburg, her
Majesty’s brother, all walked together. Behind them followed six lovely
young princesses,[68] with their ladies and some of the young princes,
making, in the eyes of loyal subjects, ‘a very gay and pleasing
procession of one of the finest families in the world.’ “Every way they
moved,” continues the narrator, “the crowd retired to stand up against
the wall as they passed, and then closed in to follow. When they
approached, and we were retreating, Lady Louisa Clayton placed me next
herself, making her daughters stand below—without which I had certainly
not been seen; for the moment their Majesties advanced, I involuntarily
looked down, and drew my hat over my face. I could not endure to stare
at them; and, full of our real errand, I felt ashamed even of being seen
by them. Consequently, I should have stood in the herd, and unregarded;
but Lady Louisa’s kindness and good breeding put me in a place too
conspicuous to pass unnoticed. The moment the Queen had spoken to her,
which she stopped to do as soon as she came up to her, she inquired, in
a whisper, who was with her. The Queen then instantly stepped near me,
and asked me how I did; and then the King came forward, and, as soon as
he had repeated the same question, said:
“‘Are you come to stay?’
“‘No, sir; not now.’
“‘I was sure,’ cried the Queen, ‘she was not come to stay, by seeing her
father!’
“I was glad by this to know my father had been observed.
“‘And when,’ asked the King, ‘do you return again to Windsor?’
“‘Very soon, I hope, sir.’
“‘And—and—and,’ cried he, half laughing and hesitating significantly,
‘pray, how goes on the Muse?’
“At first I only laughed too; but he repeated the inquiry, and then I
answered:
“‘Not at all, sir.’
“‘No? But why?—why not?’
“‘I—I—I am afraid, sir,’ stammered I.
“‘And why?’ repeated he;—‘of what?’
“I spoke something—I hardly know what myself—so indistinctly that he
could not hear me, though he had put his head quite under my hat from
the beginning of the little conference; and after another such question
or two, and no greater satisfaction in the answer, he smiled very
good-humouredly, and walked on, his Queen by his side.
“We stayed some time longer on the Terrace, and my poor father
occasionally joined me; but he looked so conscious and depressed that it
pained me to see him. He was not spoken to, though he had a bow every
time the King passed him, and a curtsey from the Queen. But it hurt him,
and he thought it a very bad prognostic; and all there was at all to
build upon was the graciousness shown to me.” Much dejected, the Doctor
posted back to town with his daughter; and, on reaching home, heard that
the place he sought had been disposed of by the Lord Chamberlain, in
whose gift it was.
Miss Burney was persuaded that the King was displeased with the action
of his official, but we venture to doubt the correctness of her belief.
Beyond question, Mr. Smelt had had good reason for implying that the
daughter, rather than the father, was the object of favour at Windsor.
Dr. Burney was by no means a sound enough Handelian to satisfy George
III. And, to say the truth, the account of the Handel Centenary Festival
was but a poor performance. On the other hand, Fanny’s literary success,
and her manner of carrying it, had pleased and interested the royal
pair. It is probable, if not absolutely certain, that the design of
finding her some employment at Court had already been entertained, and
that this was considered to render her father’s suit for himself
inopportune.
The first thought was to settle her with one of the princesses, in
preference to the numerous candidates of high birth and station, but
small fortune, who were waiting and supplicating for places about the
persons of the King’s daughters. But in the month following Dr. Burney’s
disappointment, a vacancy occurred in the Queen’s own Household. The
office of Keeper of the Robes was jointly held by two Germans, Mrs.
Schwellenberg and Mrs. Haggerdorn, who had accompanied Charlotte of
Mecklenburg-Strelitz, when she came to England. The health of Mrs.
Haggerdorn broke down about this time, and in June, 1786, it was
arranged that she should retire, and return to her own country. Who
should succeed her was a matter of eager speculation and fierce
competition in Court circles; but without consulting anyone, the Queen
commissioned Mr. Smelt to make an offer to Frances Burney. This trusted
agent was instructed to express her Majesty’s wish to attach the young
lady permanently to herself and her family: he was to propose to her to
undertake certain duties, which were in fact those of Mrs. Haggerdorn;
and he was to intimate that in case of her accepting the situation
designed for her, she would have apartments in the palace, would belong
to the table of Mrs. Schwellenberg, with whom the Queen’s own visitors—
bishops, lords, or commons—always dined; would be allowed a separate
footman, and the use of a carriage in common with her senior colleague;
and would receive a salary of two hundred pounds a year.
Fanny listened, and was struck with consternation. “The attendance,” she
wrote to her dear Miss Cambridge, “was to be incessant, the confinement
to the Court continual; I was scarce ever to be spared for a single
visit from the palaces, nor to receive anybody but with permission; and
what a life for me, who have friends so dear to me, and to whom
friendship is the balm, the comfort, the very support of existence!’ It
was not the sacrifice of literary prospects that alarmed her. She did
not even think of ‘those distinguished men and women, the flower of all
political parties, with whom she had been in the habit of mixing on
terms of equal intercourse,’[69] and from whose society she would be
exiled. Her mind dwelt only on the pain of being separated from her
family and intimate friends: from Susan and the Lockes; from the old
familiar faces at Chesington; from her sister Charlotte, now married and
settled in Norfolk; from her correspondent at Twickenham. ‘I have no
heart,’ she says, ‘to write to Mickleham or Norbury. I know how they
will grieve: they have expected me to spend the whole summer with them.’
Good Mr. Smelt, who, in the words of Macaulay, seems to have thought
that going to Court was like going to heaven, was equally surprised and
mortified at the mournful reception accorded to his flattering
proposals. Mrs. Delany, in whose town house they were delivered, was not
less astounded. The recipient, however, had but one thought, that, which
ever way her own feelings inclined, the matter must be referred to her
father, as the only person entitled to decide it. Dr. Burney, as might
have been anticipated, was enraptured by the honour done to his family,
and the vista which, in his sanguine view, was opened before his
daughter. Meanwhile, Mr. Smelt had gone down to Windsor, and brought
back word that the Queen desired a personal interview with Miss Burney.
Fanny had her audience, and it ended, as she foresaw must be the case,
in her submission. When her Majesty said, with the most condescending
softness, ‘I am sure, Miss Burney, we shall suit one another very well,’
there was nothing to be done, but to make a humble reverence, and
accept. The Queen told Mrs. Delany: ‘I was led to think of Miss Burney,
first by her books, then by seeing her; then by always hearing how she
was loved by her friends; but chiefly by your friendship for her.’
Of course, the proposition and the acceptance were alike mistaken. The
service required was unworthy of the servant, nor was she competent for
the service. On the one hand, the talents of a brilliant writer were
thrown away in a situation where writing was neither expected nor
desired. On the other, a novice of puny figure, imperfect sight, extreme
nervousness, and small aptitude for ordinary feminine duties, was most
unlikely to become distinguished in the profession of a
lady-in-attendance. Under the most favourable circumstances, the gains
and advantages attached to her constrained life at Court were not to be
compared with those which might be looked for from the diligent use of
her pen in the freedom of home. Yet allowing all this, we cannot
disguise from ourselves that much heedless rhetoric has been expended by
several critics on the folly of Miss Burney’s choice, and the
infatuation of her parent. These critics, we conceive, have been led
astray, partly by those more extreme trials of her servitude which no
prudence could have foreseen, but principally by an erroneous estimate
of her position at the time when she closed with the Queen’s offer.
The picture which has been imagined of Frances Burney sending forth, at
short intervals, a series of ‘Cecilias,’ and receiving for each a cheque
of two thousand guineas, is attractive, but purely visionary. It would,
we venture to say, have tickled her fine sense of humour amazingly. We
are not to think of her as of a favourite novelist of to-day, whom the
booksellers and the editors of magazines conspire to keep constantly
employed. Her longing to see herself in print seems to have been
satiated by the appearance of ‘Evelina.’ Her second work was a much less
spontaneous production. Indeed, it is not clear that ‘Cecilia’ would
have been written but for the urgency of Crisp, seconded by other
friends. Her two fathers were agreed that she ought to exert herself
while her powers and her fame were fresh; but how much stimulus was
applied after Crisp’s death, we are not informed. Hers was not a very
energetic nature, and she had some misgiving that her invention was
exhausted. At any rate, she had now let four years go by without
attempting anything new. Her third book was not published for the space
of a lustrum after her release from Court, and then only under strong
pressure of the _res angusta domi_. There had been some talk of laying
out the amount paid for ‘Cecilia’ in the purchase of an annuity. But we
do not find that this saving plan was executed. What has been
contemptuously called ‘board, lodging, and two hundred a year,’ was no
bad provision for a single lady of thirty-four, who was producing
nothing, and had no income of her own. Boswell, it is true, declared
that he would farm her out himself for double or treble the money; but
then Boswell did not know a great deal of female authors. Burney was
much better aware what to expect from his daughter’s enterprise and
resolution; and we are by no means sure that, in accepting for her the
offered place, he proved himself a less practical man than the
‘irresponsible reviewers’ who have derided him as a moon-struck
worshipper of royalty. Burke, who certainly did not undervalue Miss
Burney, and who knew something of her family circumstances, was
delighted at the news, and thought that the Queen had never shown more
good sense than in appointing Miss Burney to her service; though he
afterwards owned to having miscalculated, when the service turned out to
mean confinement to such a companion as Mrs. Schwellenberg.
But neither the irksomeness of the duty, nor the character of Mrs.
Schwellenberg, was known to the outer world. Both required experience to
make them understood. How by degrees they disclosed themselves to Miss
Burney, we shall learn presently. For the feud which sprang up between
the two ladies, it must, in fairness, be owned that the elder was not
wholly answerable. Miss Burney—we ought now properly to call her Mrs.
Burney—had been appointed second Keeper of the Robes. She seems to have
supposed that this put her on a level with Mrs. Schwellenberg, giving
the latter the advantage of formal precedence only. But whatever had
been the relation of Mrs. Haggerdorn to her colleague, it appears clear
that Fanny, a much younger, and quite inexperienced person, was intended
to be subordinate. Thus, when she expresses a fear that, by want of
spirit to assert it, she had lost a right to invite guests to table, we
cannot but remember that, in the terms proposed to her, the table had
been described as Mrs. Schwellenberg’s. The chief Keeper, as we shall
see, was coarse and offensive in speech, domineering and tyrannical in
action, but her junior sometimes resented a tone of superiority and
command which their royal mistress evidently thought natural and
reasonable.
Whatever injury Miss Burney may have sustained by entering the palace,
her readers at least have no cause to complain. ‘I am glad for _her_
interest,’ wrote Walpole, ‘though sorry for my own, that Evelina and
Cecilia are to be transformed into a Madame de Motteville, as I shall
certainly not live to read her Memoirs, though I might another novel.’
But what was to Horace a source of regret, may be to us matter for
congratulation. Fanny’s Diaries are now much more studied than her
novels. Few of us would wish to exchange the journal of her life at
Court for another fiction from her pen. The Harrels, the Delvilles, the
Briggses, about whom Burke and Reynolds and Mrs. Delany talked as if
they were real personages, are for most of us names that call up no
association. Queen Charlotte and stout King George are better known to
us than any other royal pair mentioned in English history. And for this
we are in great measure indebted to the little lady who joined their
household in July, 1786. The likeness of the Queen, which we remember as
well as we do the features of our mothers, is entirely of her drawing;
while she contributes not a few of the sketches which are combined in
our impression of the monarch who loved music, and backgammon, and
homely chat, and Ogden’s sermons, as much as he detested popery, and
whiggery, and freethinking, and Wilkes. Nor are characters of another
kind wanting in this journal. Mrs. Schwellenberg’s arrogance, her
insolence, her peevishness, her ferocious selfishness, her broken
English, are more familiar to the present generation than the humours,
the affectations, the piebald dialect of Madame Duval, or than the
traits of any of the other figures in Evelina. The Senior Robe-keeper
was no doubt as indifferent to posthumous reputation as she was to the
contemporary opinion of all who could not displace her. That she ran any
risk from the satire of her timorous assistant was a thought which never
occurred to her illiterate mind. She hardly knew what satire meant. She
flattered herself that Harry Bunbury could not caricature her because
she had no hump. For writers of imagination she had an unbounded
contempt. ‘I won’t have nothing what you call novels,’ she once cried in
Fanny’s presence, ‘what you call romances, what you call histories—I
might not read such what you call stuff—not I!’ Had she been one degree
less callous, or one degree less ignorant, she might have been slower to
provoke the hostility of Johnson’s ‘little character-monger.’ Well! we
have her portrait, most carefully executed. And we have also, by the
same cunning hand, vivid delineations of many other persons, more or
less notable, and of several interesting scenes that fell under the
artist’s view during her connection with the Queen. We do not go to Miss
Burney’s record of those five years for secrets of state, or politics,
or even Court scandal—with which last, indeed, she seems to have busied
herself as little as with the first two—but for a picture of the
domestic life and manners of the Sovereign and his consort. It is no
small proof of the journalist’s tact and discretion that she was able to
produce so candid a narrative of what she experienced and witnessed
without giving offence to the family concerned. The Duke of Sussex is
reported to have said, that he and the other surviving children of
George III. had been alarmed when the Diaries of Madame d’Arblay were
announced for publication, but pleased with the book when it appeared;
‘though I think,’ added his Royal Highness, ‘that she is rather hard on
poor old Schwellenberg.’ The Duke, of course, had seen the Schwellenberg
only in her part of an abject toad-eater. Yet there may be something in
his observation. Fanny had a light touch, but, like other women, was
unforgiving towards an enemy of her own sex.
Our readers must not suppose that Miss Burney, on her appointment, went
to live in Windsor Castle. Some years before that time, the Castle had
been forsaken by the royal family as uninhabitable. A sort of makeshift
palace, known as the Upper Lodge, or the Queen’s Lodge,[70] was erected
hard by, opposite the South Terrace; a long narrow building, with
battlements fronting northward towards the old towers, and southward
towards a walled garden, at the further end of which was placed the
Lower Lodge, a smaller building of similar character, appropriated to
the use of the Princesses. Fanny, as an attendant on the person of the
Queen, was quartered in the Upper Lodge. “My Windsor apartment,” she
wrote, “is extremely comfortable. I have a large drawing-room, as they
call it, which is on the ground-floor, as are all the Queen’s rooms, and
which faces the Castle and the venerable Round Tower, and opens at the
further side, from the windows, to the Little Park. It is airy,
pleasant, clean, and healthy. My bedroom is small, but neat and
comfortable; its entrance is only from the drawing-room, and it looks to
the garden. These two rooms are delightfully independent of all the rest
of the house, and contain everything I can desire for my convenience and
comfort.” The sitting-room had a view of the walk leading to the
Terrace, access to which was obtained by a flight of steps and an iron
gate. Mrs. Delany’s door was at a distance of less than fifty yards from
the Queen’s Lodge. The paltry and uncomfortable barracks erected under
George III. no longer discredit the Crown of England. The restoration of
Windsor Castle was commenced in 1800, and occupied a good many years.
‘In 1823 the Queen’s House was pulled down, and the present royal
stables, built in 1839, occupy part of the site. It is, indeed, very
difficult to identify any of the landmarks now; everything has been so
completely changed. The steps and the iron gate, the railings and the
Princesses’ garden, have all disappeared as completely as the Upper and
Lower Lodges.’[71]
In the following passage we have a summary of the new Robe-keeper’s
usual round of daily duties:
“I rise at six o’clock, dress in a morning gown and cap, and wait my
first summons, which is at all times from seven to near eight, but
commonly in the exact half-hour between them. The Queen never sends for
me till her hair is dressed. This, in a morning, is always done by her
wardrobe-woman, Mrs. Thielky, a German, but who speaks English perfectly
well. Mrs. Schwellenberg, since the first week, has never come down in a
morning at all. The Queen’s dress is finished by Mrs. Thielky and
myself. No maid ever enters the room while the Queen is in it. Mrs.
Thielky hands the things to me, and I put them on. ’Tis fortunate for me
I have not the handing them! I should never know which to take first,
embarrassed as I am, and should run a prodigious risk of giving the gown
before the hoop, and the fan before the neckerchief. By eight o’clock,
or a little after, for she is extremely expeditious, she is dressed. She
then goes out to join the King, and be joined by the Princesses, and
they all proceed to the King’s chapel in the Castle, to prayers,
attended by the governesses of the Princesses, and the King’s equerry.
Various others at times attend; but only these indispensably. I then
return to my own room to breakfast. I make this meal the most pleasant
part of the day; I have a book for my companion, and I allow myself an
hour for it.... At nine o’clock I send off my breakfast-things, and
relinquish my book, to make a serious and steady examination of
everything I have upon my hands in the way of business—in which,
preparations for dress are always included, not for the present day
alone, but for the Court-days, which require a particular dress; for the
next arriving birthday of any of the Royal Family, every one of which
requires new apparel; for Kew, where the dress is plainest; and for
going on here, where the dress is very pleasant to me, requiring no show
nor finery, but merely to be neat, not inelegant, and moderately
fashionable. That over, I have my time at my own disposal till a quarter
before twelve, except on Wednesdays and Saturdays, when I have it only
to a quarter before eleven.... These times mentioned call me to the
irksome and quick-returning labours of the toilette. The hour advanced
on the Wednesdays and Saturdays is for curling and craping the hair,
which it now requires twice a week. A quarter before one is the usual
time for the Queen to begin dressing for the day. Mrs. Schwellenberg
then constantly attends; so do I; Mrs. Thielky, of course, at all times.
We help her off with her gown, and on with her powdering things, and
then the hairdresser is admitted. She generally reads the newspapers
during that operation. When she observes that I have run to her but half
dressed, she constantly gives me leave to return and finish as soon as
she is seated. If she is grave, and reads steadily on, she dismisses me,
whether I am dressed or not; but at all times she never forgets to send
me away while she is powdering, with a consideration not to spoil my
clothes, that one would not expect belonged to her high station. Neither
does she ever detain me without making a point of reading here and there
some little paragraph aloud.... Few minutes elapse ere I am again
summoned. I find her then always removed to her state dressing-room, if
any room in this private mansion can have the epithet of state. There,
in a very short time, her dress is finished. She then says she won’t
detain me, and I hear and see no more of her till bedtime....
“At five, we have dinner. Mrs. Schwellenberg and I meet in the
eating-room. We are commonly tête-à-tête.... When we have dined, we go
upstairs to her apartment, which is directly over mine. Here we have
coffee till the _terracing_ is over: this is at about eight o’clock. Our
tête-à-tête then finishes, and we come down again to the eating-room.
There the equerry, whoever he is, comes to tea constantly, and with him
any gentleman that the King or Queen may have invited for the evening;
and when tea is over, he conducts them, and goes himself, to the
concert-room. This is commonly about nine o’clock. From that time, if
Mrs. Schwellenberg is alone, I never quit her for a minute, till I come
to my little supper at near eleven. Between eleven and twelve my last
summons usually takes place, earlier and later occasionally. Twenty
minutes is the customary time then spent with the Queen: half an hour, I
believe, is seldom exceeded. I then come back, and after doing whatever
I can to forward my dress for the next morning, I go to bed—and to
sleep, too, believe me: the early rising, and a long day’s attention to
new affairs and occupations, cause a fatigue so bodily, that nothing
mental stands against it, and to sleep I fall the moment I have put out
my candle and laid down my head.”
The best-known writer of that day was wounded at first by having to
‘answer the bell,’ like any chambermaid; and she had cast on her another
burden, which even her loyalty could not consider dignified. She had to
mix the Queen’s snuff. To perform this task belonged to her place, and
it was an inflexible rule with her Majesty that discipline must be
preserved. We cannot help thinking that there was a touch of regret in
the King’s voice when he said:
‘Miss Burney, I hear you cook snuff very well.’
‘Miss Burney,’ exclaimed the Princess Elizabeth, ‘I hope you hate snuff;
for I hate it of all things in the world.’
Thus we see that disaffection lurked even in members of the Royal House.
We pause here for a moment to notice that a precaution adopted by Mrs.
Phillips, in her replies to her sister’s _Court Journal_, of giving
fictitious names to some of the persons mentioned, was imitated, when
the Diary was printed, by substituting the names invented by Susan for
the real ones which occurred in the original. Thus, in the published
volumes from which our extracts are taken, Mr. Turbulent stands for M.
de Guiffardière,[72] a clergyman who held the office of French reader to
the Queen and the Princesses; Colonel Welbred is Colonel Greville; and
Colonel Fairly is the Honourable Stephen Digby, who lost his first wife,
a daughter of Lord Ilchester, in 1787, and married Miss Gunning, called
in the Diary Miss Fuzilier, in 1790.
Next to the King and Queen, the most important figures in Fanny’s new
life are their fair daughters, the Princesses who inhabited the Lower
Lodge. ‘The history of the daughters,’ says Thackeray, ‘as little Miss
Burney has painted them, is delightful. They were handsome—she calls
them beautiful; they were most kind, loving, and ladylike; they were
gracious to every person, high and low, who served them. They had many
little accomplishments of their own. This one drew: that one played the
piano: they all worked most prodigiously, and fitted up whole suites of
rooms—pretty smiling Penelopes—with their busy little needles.... The
prettiest of all, I think, is the father’s darling, the Princess Amelia,
pathetic for her beauty, her sweetness, her early death, and for the
extreme passionate tenderness with which the King loved her.’ Three
weeks after Miss Burney entered on her post, occurred the birthday of
this favourite child. On such festivals, when the weather was fine, the
Royal Family never failed to walk on the Terrace, which was crowded with
persons of distinction, who, by this mode of showing respect, escaped
the necessity of attending the next Drawing-room. On the present
occasion, Mrs. Delany was carried in her sedan—the gift of the King—to
the foot of the stairs, and appeared on the promenade with the new
Keeper of the Robes by her side. “It was really a mighty pretty
procession,” writes Fanny. “The little Princess, just turned of three
years old, in a robe-coat covered with fine muslin, a dressed close cap,
white gloves, and a fan, walked on alone and first, highly delighted in
the parade, and turning from side to side to see everybody as she
passed: for all the terracers stand up against the walls, to make a
clear passage for the Royal Family, the moment they come in sight. Then
followed the King and Queen, no less delighted themselves with the joy
of their little darling. The Princess Royal, leaning on Lady Elizabeth
Waldegrave, followed at a little distance; next the Princess Augusta,
holding by the Duchess of Ancaster; and next the Princess Elizabeth,
holding by Lady Charlotte Bertie. Office here takes place of rank, which
occasioned Lady Elizabeth Waldegrave, as lady of her bedchamber, to walk
with the Princess Royal. Then followed the Princess Mary with Miss
Goldsworthy,[73] and the Princess Sophia with Mademoiselle Montmoulin
and Miss Planta;[74] then General Budé and the Duke of Montague;[75]
and, lastly, Major Price, who, as equerry, always brings up the rear,
walks at a distance from the group, and keeps off all crowd from the
Royal Family.”
‘One sees it,’ adds Thackeray: ‘the band playing its old music; the sun
shining on the happy loyal crowd, and lighting the ancient battlements,
the rich elms, and purple landscape, and bright green sward: the royal
standard drooping from the great tower yonder; as old George passes,
followed by his race, preceded by the charming infant, who caresses the
crowd with her innocent smiles.’
The Diary proceeds: ‘On sight of Mrs. Delany, the King instantly stopped
to speak to her. The Queen, of course, and the little Princess, and all
the rest, stood still, in their ranks. They talked a good while with the
sweet old lady; during which time the King once or twice addressed
himself to me. I caught the Queen’s eye, and saw in it a little
surprise, but by no means any displeasure, to see me of the party.
“The little Princess went up to Mrs. Delany, of whom she is very fond,
and behaved like a little angel to her: she then, with a look of inquiry
and recollection, slowly, of her own accord, came behind Mrs. Delany to
look at me. ‘I am afraid,’ said I, in a whisper, and stooping down,
‘your Royal Highness does not remember me?’
“What think you was her answer? An arch little smile, and a nearer
approach, with her lips pouted out to kiss me. I could not resist so
innocent an invitation; but the moment I had accepted it, I was half
afraid it might seem, in so public a place, an improper liberty:
however, there was no help for it. She then took my fan, and having
looked at it on both sides, gravely returned it me, saying, ‘O! a brown
fan!’”
-----
Footnote 61:
‘It is pronounced like Rembrandt, but, as I told her, it does not look
older than she is, but older than she does.’—Walpole to Mason,
February 14, 1782.
Footnote 62:
The editor of Mrs. Delany’s ‘Correspondence,’ having a grudge against
Madame d’Arblay, labours to prove that the Duchess of Portland cannot
have been present at this interview. The supposed proof consists in
showing from some old letters that the Duchess did not read ‘Evelina’
for nearly twelve months after the date spoken of. But this is nothing
to the purpose. ‘Evelina’ does not appear to have been mentioned when
its author was introduced to Miss Delany. The conversation recorded to
have passed related wholly to ‘Cecilia.’
Footnote 63:
Memoirs, vol. ii., p. 313.
Footnote 64:
The courtier-bishop Hurd described Mrs. Delany as a lady ‘of great
politeness and ingenuity, and of an unaffected piety.’
Footnote 65:
Georgina Mary Ann Port (called ‘Mary’ by her great-aunt) was born on
September 16, 1771. Her father having outrun his means, she was taken
by Mrs. Delany, who brought her up to the age of sixteen. Not long
after the death of her protectress, she married Mr. Benjamin
Waddington, of Llanover. She died on January 19, 1850.
Footnote 66:
Miss Burney’s account is confirmed in every important particular by
Walpole, who states that he had his information from Mrs. Delany’s own
mouth: Walpole to Lady Ossory, September 17, 1785. Lady Llanover, who
edited the ‘Delany Correspondence,’ is wroth that the thankful
recipient of all this minute bounty should be accused of having been
helped in her housekeeping by the Duchess of Portland. In the ‘Memoirs
of Dr. Burney’ (vol. iii., p. 50), it is stated that the Duchess, who
visited at Mrs. Delany’s nearly every evening, contrived to assist the
_ménage_, without offending her hostess by the offer of money. If
Madame d’Arblay erred in this statement—and Lady Llanover by no means
satisfies us that she did err—surely the mistake was a most venial
one. But Lady Llanover’s outraged dignity fumes through hundreds of
pages in feeble sneers at Fanny’s low origin, and still more feeble
attempts to convict her of inaccuracy. _Noblesse oblige._
Footnote 67:
The Probationary Odes for the Laureateship appeared in 1785, after
the appointment of Thomas Warton to that office, on the vacancy
occasioned by the death of William Whitehead.
Footnote 68:
Charlotte, b. 1766, d. 1828, m. King of Wurtemberg; Augusta, b. 1768,
d. 1840 (unm.); Elizabeth, b. 1770, d. 1840, m. Landgrave of Hesse
Homburg; Mary, b. 1776, d. 1840, m. her cousin, the Duke of
Gloucester; Sophia, b. 1777, d. 1848 (unm.); Amelia, b. 1783, d. 1810
(unm.).
Footnote 69:
Macaulay.
Footnote 70:
It was sometimes called the ‘Queen’s Lodge,’ because it stood on the
site of the older Queen Anne’s Lodge.
Footnote 71:
Loftie’s ‘Windsor Castle.’
Footnote 72:
Commonly known as the Rev. Charles Giffardier. He had a prebendal
stall at Salisbury, and was vicar of Newington, and rector of
Berkhampstead.—Croker in the _Quarterly Review_.
Footnote 73:
Sub-governess of the Princesses.
Footnote 74:
English teacher to the two eldest Princesses.
Footnote 75:
Master of the Horse.
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