After this they carried us to the Infirmary, where I was yet more pleased, for the sick and the destitute awaken an interest far less painful than the wicked and contemned. We went entirely over the house, and then over the city, which has little else to catch notice. The pin manufactory we did not see, as they discouraged us by an account of its dirt.
Mr. Raikes is a very principal man in all these benevolent institutions; and while I poured forth my satisfaction in them very copiously and warmly, he hinted a question whether I could name them to the queen. “Beyond doubt,” I answered; “for these were precisely the things which most interested her majesty’s humanity.” The joy with which he heard this was nothing short of rapture.
ON THE WALKS.
Sunday, July 20-Colonel Gwynn again brought but a bad account of his companion, who was now under the care of the Cheltenham apothecary, Mr. Clerke.
I had appointed in the evening to go on the walks with Miss Palmer. I scarce ever passed so prodigious a crowd as was assembled before the house when I went out. The people of the whole county seemed gathered together to see their majesties; and so quiet, so decent, so silent, that it was only by the eye they could be discovered, though so immense a multitude. How unlike a London mob!
The king, kindly to gratify their zealous and respectful curiosity, came to his window, and seeing me go out, he called me to speak to him, and give an account of my intentions. The people, observing this graciousness, made way for me on every side, so that I passed through them with as much facility as if the meadows had been empty.
The D’Oyleys and Miss Johnson and Miss Palmer made the walking party, and Mr. Seward joined us. Mr. Raikes and all his family were come from Gloucester to see the royal family on the walks, which were very much crowded, but with the same respectful multitude, who never came forward, but gazed and admired at the most humble distance,
Mr. Raikes introduced me to the Bishop of Gloucester, Dr. Halifax, and afterwards, much more to my satisfaction, to the Dean of Gloucester, Dr. Tucker, the famous author of “Cui bono.”(283) I was very glad to see him: he is past eighty, and has a most shrewd and keen old face I went afterwards to tea with the D’Oyleys and Miss Palmer, and
Mr. Seward again accompanied us. Miss Palmer brought me home in
Sir John’s carriage, making it drive as near as possible to the
house.
But just before we quitted the walks I was run after by a quick female step :— “Miss Burney, don’t you know me? have you forgot Spotty?” — and I saw Miss Ogle. She told me she had longed to come and see me, but did not know if she might. She is here with her mother and two younger sisters. I promised to wait on them. Mrs. Oake was daughter to the late Bishop of Winchester, who was a preceptor of the king’s: I knew, therefore, I might promise with approbation.
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.
Monday, July 21.-I was very much disappointed this morning to see Colonel Gwynn come again alone to breakfast, and to hear from him that his poor colleague was still confined.
The royal party all went at ten o’clock to Tewkesbury. About noon, while I was writing a folio letter to my dear father, of our proceedings, Mr. Alberts, the queen’s page, came into my little parlour, and said “If you are at leisure, ma’am, Mr. Fairly begs leave to ask you how you do.”
I was all amazement, for I had concluded his confinement irremediable for the present. I was quite happy to receive him; he looked very ill, and his face is still violently swelled. He had a handkerchief held to it, and was muffled up in a great coat; and indeed he seemed unfit enough for coming out.
He apologised for interrupting me. I assured him I should have ample time for my letter.
“What a letter!” cried he, looking at its size, “it is just such a one as I should like to receive, and not—”
“Read,” cried I.
“No, no! — and not answer!”
He then sat down, and I saw by his manner he came with design to make a sociable visit to me. He was serious almost to sadness, but with a gentleness that could not but raise in whomsoever he had addressed an implicit sympathy. He led almost immediately to those subjects on which he loves to dwell — Death and Immortality, and the assured misery of all stations and all seasons in this vain and restless world.
I ventured not to contradict him with my happier sentiments, lest I should awaken some fresh pain. I heard him, therefore, in quiet and meditative silence, or made but such general answers as could hazard no allusions. Yet, should I ever see him in better spirits, I shall not scruple to discuss, in such a way as I can, this point, and to vindicate as well as I am able my opposite opinion.
He told me he had heard a fifth week was to be now added to this excursion, and he confessed a most anxious solicitude to be gone before that time. He dropped something, unexplained, yet very striking, of a peculiar wish to be away ere some approaching period.
I felt his meaning, though I had no key to it; I felt that he coveted to spend in quiet the anniversary of the day on which he lost his lady. You may believe I could say nothing to it; the idea was too tender for discussion; nor can I divine whether or not he wishes to open more on this subject, or is better pleased by my constant silence to his own allusions. I know not, indeed, whether he thinks I even understand them.
COURTS AND COURT LIFE.
We then talked over Cheltenham and our way of life, and then ran into discourse upon Courts and Court life in general. I frankly said I liked them not, and that, if I had the direction of any young person’s destination, I would never risk them into such a mode of living; for, though Vices may be as well avoided there as anywhere ‘and in this Court particularly, there were mischiefs of a smaller kind, extremely pernicious to all nobleness of character, to which this Court, with all its really bright examples, was as liable as any other, — the mischiefs of jealousy, narrowness, and selfishness.
He did not see, he said, when there was a place of settled income and appropriated business why it might not be filled both with integrity and content in a Court as well as elsewhere. Ambition, the desire of rising, those, he said, were the motives that envy which set such little passions in motion. One situation, however, there was, he said, which he looked upon as truly dangerous, and as almost certain to pervert the fairest disposition- it was one in which he would not place any person for whom he had the smallest regard, as he looked upon it to be the greatest hazard a character could run. This was, being maid of honour.
THE VINDICTIVE BARETTI.
Tuesday, July 22-To-day, at noon, I had a surprise with which I was very well pleased. His majesty opened the door of my little parlour, called out, “Come, Come in -,” and was followed by Major Price. He was just arrived from his little farm in Herefordshire, and will stay here some days. It is particularly fortunate just now, when another gentleman was really required to assist in attendance upon the royal party.
Mr. Seward, with a good-humoured note, sent me the magazine with Baretti’s strictures on Mrs. Thrale. Good heaven, how abusive! It can hardly hurt her — it is so palpably meant to do it. I could not have suspected him, with all his violence, of a bitterness of invective so cruel, so ferocious!
I well remember his saying to me, when first I saw him after the discovery of “Evelina”…… I see what it is you can do, you little witch — it is, that you can hang us all up for laughing- stocks; but hear me this one thing — don’t meddle with me. I see what they are, your powers; but remember, when you provoke an Italian you run a dagger into your own breast!”
I half shuddered at the fearful caution from him, because the dagger was a word of unfortunate recollection:(284) but, good heaven! it could only be a half Shudder when the caution was against an offence I could sooner die than commit, and which, I may truly say, if personal attack was what he meant, never even in sport entered my mind, and was ever, in earnest, a thing I have held in the deepest abhorrence.
I must do, however, the justice to his candour to add, that upon a newer acquaintance w
ith me, which immediately followed, he never repeated his admonition; and when “Cecilia” came out, and he hastened to me with every species of extravagant encomium, he never hinted at any similar idea, and it seemed evident he concluded me, by that time, incapable meriting such a suspicion; though, to judge by his own conduct, a proceeding of this sort may to him appear in a very different light. He thinks, at least, a spirit of revenge may authorize any attack, any insult. How unhappy and how strange! to join to so much real good nature as this man possesses when pleased, a disposition so savagely vindictive when offended.
SPECULATIONS UPON COLONEL FAIRLY’S RE-MARRYING. Thursday, July 24— “Pray, Miss Burney,” cried Colonel Gwynn, “do you think Mr. Fairly will ever marry again?”
“I think it very doubtful,” I answered, “but I hope he will, for, whether he is happy or not in marrying, I am sure he will be wretched in singleness; the whole turn of his mind is so social and domestic. He is by no means formed for going always abroad for the relief of society; he requires it more at hand.”
“And what do you think of Miss Fuzilier?”
“That he is wholly disengaged with her and with everybody.”
“Well, I think it will be, for I know they correspond; and what should he correspond with her for else?”
“Because, I suppose, he has done it long before this could be suggested as the motive. And, indeed, the very quickness of the report makes me discredit it; ’tis so utterly impossible for a man whose feelings are so delicate to have taken any steps towards a second connexion at so early a period.”
“Why, I know he’s very romantic, — but I should like to know your opinion.”
“I have given it you,” cried I, “very exactly.”
COLONEL FAIRLY AGAIN PRESENTS HIMSELF.
Not long after, when all the party was broke up from my little parlour, though not yet set out for Gloucester, who should again surprise me by entering but Mr. Fairly! I was quite rejoiced by his sight. He was better, though not well. His face is almost reduced to its natural size. He had a letter for her majesty from Lord Aylesbury, and had determined to venture bringing it himself.
He said he would carry it in to the queen, and then return to my parlour, if I would give him some breakfast.
You may suppose I answered “No!” But, afterwards, fearing he might be detained and fatigued, he asked me to present it for him, and only say he was waiting in my room for commands. I was forced to say “Yes,” though I had rather not.
Her majesty was much surprised to hear he was again out so unexpectedly, and asked if he thought of going to Gloucester?
“No,” I said, “I believed he was not equal to that.”
She bid me tell him she would see him before she went.
I returned with this message, and would then have ordered him fresh breakfast; but he declared if I was fidgety he should have no comfort, and insisted on my sitting quietly down, while he drew a chair by my side, and made his own cold tea, and drank it weak and vapid, and eat up all the miserable scraps, without suffering me to call for plate, knife, bread, butter, or anything for replenishment. And when he had done, and I would have made some apology, he affected me for him a good deal by gravely saying, “Believe me, this is the pleasantest breakfast I have made these six days.”
He then went on speaking of his late confinement, and its comfortless circumstances, in very strong terms, dwelling on its solitude and its uselessness, as if those only formed its disagreeability, and the pain went for nothing. Social and kind is his heart, and finely touched to the most exquisite sensations of sympathy; and, as I told Colonel Gwynn, I must needs wish he may yet find some second gentle partner fitted to alleviate his sorrows, by giving to him an object whose happiness would become his first study.
He brought me back the few books I had procured him but I had no fresh supply. He spoke again of the favourite “Letters,” and said he felt so sure I should be pleased with them, that he was desirous I should look at them, adding There is no person into whose hands I would not put them not even my daughter’s.”
It was now impossible to avoid saying I should be glad to see them: it would seem else to doubt either his taste or his delicacy, while I have the highest opinion of both. In talking them over he told me he believed them to be genuine; “But the woman,” he said, “throughout the whole correspondence, is too much the superior. She leaves the man far behind. She is so collected, so composed, so constantly mistress of herself, so unbiased by her passions, so rational, and so dignified, that I would even recommend her as an example to any young woman in similar circumstances to follow.” He was summoned to her majesty, in the dining-parlour. But when they were all set out on the Gloucester expedition, he returned to my little parlour, and stayed with me a considerable time.
Grave he came back — grave quite to solemnity, and almost wholly immersed in deep and sad reflections, He spoke little, and that little with a voice so melancholy, yet so gentle, that it filled me with commiseration.
At length, after much silence and many pauses, which I never attempted to interrupt or to dissipate, continuing my work as if not heeding him, he led himself distantly, yet intelligibly — to open upon the immediate state of his mind.
I now found that the king’s staying on at Cheltenham a fifth week was scarcely supportable to him; that the 16th of next month was the mournful anniversary of his loss, and that he had planned to dedicate it in some peculiar manner to her memory, with his four children. Nothing of this was positively said; for
“He feels the chastity of silent woe.”
But all of it was indubitably comprised in the various short but pointed sentences which fell from him.
THE COLONEL AND THE “ORIGINAL LOVE LETTERS.”
Friday, July 25.-Again, to a very late breakfast came Mr. Fairly, which again he made for himself, when the rest were dispersed, of all the odd remnants, eatable and drinkable. He was much better, and less melancholy. He said he should be well enough to join the royal party to-morrow, who were to dine and spend the whole day at Lord Coventry’s at Coombe. . . .
In the afternoon, while Miss Planta and myself were Sitting over our dessert, a gentle rap at the parlour-door preceded Mr. Fairly. How we both started! He was muffled up in a great coat, and said he came quite incog., as he was not well enough to dine anywhere but in his private apartment, nor to attend the royals to the walks, whither they go every evening. He had only strolled out for a walk by himself.
I could not persuade him to sit down; he said he must be gone immediately, lest he should be seen, and the king, not aware of his unfitness, should order his attendance.
Miss Planta, presently, was obliged to go to the princesses, and wait with them till the promenade took place. Quietly, then, he drew a chair to the table, and I saw he had something to say; but, after a little general talk he rose and was going : when, hearing by the dogs the royal family were just in motion, he pulled off his great coat and seated himself again.
And then, he took from his pocket a small volume, which he said he had taken this opportunity to bring me. You Will be sure it was the “Original Letters.;”
I took them, and thanked him: he charged me with a very grave air to keep them safe, and I put them into my work-box — my dear Fredy’s work-box — which here is my universal repository of small goods and chattels, and useful past all thanks.
By the time they Were set off, however, we were entered into conversation, and he said he would venture to stay tea; “though, as I tell you,” he added, “what I do not tell everybody, I must confess I have upon me some certain symptoms that make me a little suspect these Cheltenham waters are going to bring me to a fit of the gout.”
And then he told me that that dreadful disorder had been frequently and dangerously in his family, though he had himself never had it but once, which was after a very bad fall from his horse when hunting with the king.
Miss Planta now joined us, looking not a little surprised to find Mr. Fairly still here,
and I ordered tea. After it was over, she went to take her usual evening exercise; and then Mr. Fairly, pointing to my work-box, said, “Shall I read a little to you?”
Certainly, I said, if it would not too much fatigue him; and then, with the greatest pleasure in renewing again a mode in which I had taken so much delight, I got my work and gave him his book. Unluckily, however, it was the second volume; the first, having read, he had left in town. “It is quite, however,” he said, “immaterial whether You begin with the first volume or the second; the story is nothing; the language and the sentiments are all you can care for.”
I did not quite agree in this, but would not say so, lest he should think of me as Colonel Gwynn does of him, “that I am very romantic which, however, I am not, though I never like to anticipate an end ere I know a beginning.
Indeed, he had not praised them too highly, nor raised my expectations beyond what could answer them, They are full of beauties-moral, elegant, feeling, and rational. He seemed most unusually gratified by seeing me so much pleased with them. I am so glad,” he cried, “You like them, for I thought you would!” But we began so late that he could only, get through two letters, when the time of my retiring arrived. I was sorry also to have him out so late after his long confinement; but he wrapped himself up in his great coat, and did not seem to think he should suffer from it.
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 585