I assured him I had not a fear but I might always have avoided them.
“Impossible! They would have come to your tea-room.”
“I would have given up tea.”
“Then they would have followed you — called for you — sent for you — the Prince of Wales would have called about him, ‘Here! where’s Miss Burney?” “O, no, no, no!” cried I; “I would have kept wholly out of the
way, and then they would never have thought about me.”
“O, ho!” cried he, laughing, “never think of seeing Miss Burney
Prince William, too! what say you to that, Miss Planta?
She agreed there was no probability of such escape. I was only the more glad to have arrived in later times.
Here a page came to call Mr. Fairly to backgammon with his majesty.
THE DUKE OF YORK: ROYAL VISIT TO THE THEATRE. Friday, Aug. 1.-This was a very busy day; the Duke of York was expected, and his fond father had caused a portable wooden house to be moved from the further end of Cheltenham town up to join to Fauconber, Hall. The task had employed twenty or thirty men almost ever since our arrival, and so laborious, slow, difficult, and all but impracticable had it proved, that it was barely accomplished before it was wanted. There was no room, however, in the king’s actual dwelling, and he could not endure not to accommodate his son immediately next himself.
His joy upon his arrival was such joy as I have only seen here when he arrived first from Germany; I do not mean it was equally violent, or, alas! equally unmixed, but yet it was next and nearest to that which had been most perfect.
Mr. Bunbury attended his royal highness. We had all dispersed from breakfast, but the king came in, and desired me to make him some. Mr. Fairly had brought him to my little parlour, and, having called Columb, and assisted in arranging a new breakfast, he left us, glad, I suppose, of a morning to himself, for his majesty was wholly engrossed by the duke.
We talked over his usual theme — plays and players — and he languished to go to the theatre and see Mrs. Jordan. Nor did he languish in vain: his royal master, the duke, imbibed his wishes, and conveyed them to the king; and no sooner were they known than an order was hastily sent to the play-house, to prepare a royal box. The queen was so gracious as to order Miss Planta and myself to have the same entertainment.
The delight of the people that their king and queen should visit this country theatre was the most disinterested I ever witnessed; for though they had not even a glance of their royal countenances, they shouted, huzzaed, and clapped, for many minutes. The managers had prepared the front boxes for their reception, and therefore the galleries were over them. They made a very full and respectable appearance in this village theatre. The king, queen, Duke of York, and three princesses, were all accommodated with front seats; Lord Harcourt stood behind the king, Lady Harcourt and Mr. Fairly behind the queen; Lord and Lady Courtown and Lady Pembroke behind the princesses; and at the back, Colonel Gwynn and Mr. Bunbury; Mr. Boulby and Lady Mary were also in the back group.
I was somewhat taken up in observing a lady who sat opposite to me, Miss W — . My Susanna will remember that extraordinary young lady at Bath, whose conduct and conversation I have either written or repeated to her.(287)
I could not see her again without being much struck by another recollection, of more recent and vexatious date. Mrs. Thrale, in one of the letters she has published, and which was written just after I had communicated to her my singular rencontre with this lady, says to Dr. Johnson, “Burney has picked up an infidel, and recommended to her to read ‘Rasselas.’
This has a strange sound, but when its circumstances are known, its strangeness ceases; it meant Miss W — and I greatly fear, from the date and the book, she cannot but know the “infidel” and herself are one. I was truly Concerned in reading it, and I now felt almost ashamed as well as concerned in facing her, though her infidelity at that time, was of her own public avowal. Mr. Bunbury is particularly intimate with her, and admires her beyond all women.
AN UN-COURTLY VISITOR.
Miss Planta and myself, by the queen’s direction, went in a chaise to see Tewkesbury. We were carried to several very beautiful points of view, all terminating with the noble hills of Malvern; and we visited the cathedral. . . . The pews seem the most unsafe, strange, and irregular that were ever constructed; they are mounted up, story after story, without any order, now large, now small, now projecting out wide, now almost indented in back, nearly to the very roof of the building. They look as if, ready-made, they had been thrown up, and stuck wherever they could, entirely by chance.
We returned home just in time to be hastily dressed before the royals came back. I was a little, however, distressed on being told, as I descended to dinner, that Mr. Richard Burney(288) was in my parlour. The strict discipline observed here, in receiving no visits, made this a very awkward circumstance, for I as much feared hurting him by such a hint, as concurring in an impropriety by detaining him. Miss Planta suffers not a soul to approach her to this house; and Lady Harcourt has herself told me she thinks it would be wrong to receive even her sisters, Miss Vernons, so much all-together is now the house and household!
My difficulty was still increased, when, upon entering the parlour, I found him in boots, a riding dress, and hair wholly without curl or dressing. Innocently, and very naturally, he had called upon me in his travelling garb, never suspecting that in visiting me he was at all in danger of seeing or being seen by any one else. Had that indeed been the case, I should have been very glad to see him; but I knew, now, his appearance must prove every way to his disadvantage, and I felt an added anxiety to acquaint him with my situation.
Miss Planta looked all amazement; but he was himself all ease and sprightly unconsciousness.
We were obliged to sit down to dinner; he had dined. I was quite in a panic the whole time, lest any of the royals should come in before I could speak - but, after he had partaken of our dessert, as much en badinage as I could, I asked him if he felt stout enough to meet the king? and then explained to him, as concisely as I had power, that I had here no room whatsoever at my own disposal, in such a manner as to enable my having the happiness to receive any of my private friends even Miss Port, though known to all the royal family,, I could never venture to invite, except when they were abroad: such being, at present, the universal practice and forbearance of all the attendants in this tour.
He heard me with much surprise, and much laughter at his own elegant equipment for such encounters as those to which he now found himself liable; but he immediately proposed decamping, and I could not object, Yet, to soften this disagreeable explanation, I kept him a few minutes longer, settling concerning our further meeting at the concerts- at Worcester, and, in this little interval, we were startled by a rap at my door. He laughed, and started back; and I, alarmed, also retreated. Miss Planta opened the door, and called out “’Tis Mr. Fairly.”
I saw him in amaze at sight of a gentleman; and he was himself immediately retiring, concluding, I suppose, that nothing less than business very urgent could have induced me to break through rules so rigidly observed by himself and all others. I would not, however, let him go . but as I continued talking with Richard about the music meeting and my cousins, he walked up to the window with Miss Planta. I now kept Richard as long as I well could, to help off his own embarrassment at this interruption; at length he went.
MR. FAIRLY READS “AKENSIDE” TO MISS BURNEY. Hearing now the barking of the dogs, I knew the royals must be going forth to their promenade; but I found Mr. Fairly either did not hear or did not heed them. While I expected him every moment to recollect himself, and hasten to the walks, he quietly said, “They are all gone but me. I shall venture, to-night, to shirk; — though the king will soon miss me. But what will follow? He will say— ‘Fairly is tired! How shabby!’ Well! let him say so; I am tired!” Miss Planta went off, soon after, to her walk. He then said, “Have you done with my little book?”
“O yes!” I
cried, “and this morning I have sent home the map of Gloucester you were so good as to send us. Though, I believe, I have kept both so long, You will not again be in any haste to lend me either a map of the land, or a poem of the sea.” I then gave him back “The Shipwreck.”
“Shall I tell you,” cried I, “a design I have been forming upon you?”
“A design upon me?”
“Yes; and I may as well own it, for I shall be quite as near success as if I disguise it.” I then went to my little drawer and took out Akenside.”
“Here,” I cried, “I intended to have had this fall in your way, by pure accident, on the evening you were called to the conjurer, and I have planned the same ingenious project every evening since, but it has never taken, and so now I produce it fairly!”
“That,” cried he, taking it, with a very pleased smile, “is the only way in all things! He then began reading “The Pleasures of the Imagination,” and I took some work, for which I was much in haste, and my imagination was amply gratified. He only looked out for favourite passages, as he has the poem almost by heart, and he read them with a feeling and energy that showed his whole soul penetrated with their force and merit.
After the first hour, however, he grew uneasy’; he asked me when I expected the king and queen from their walk, and whether they were likely to come into my room?
“All,” I said, “was uncertain.”
“Can nobody,” he cried, “let you know when they are coming?”
“Nobody,” I answered, “would know till they were actually arrived.”
“But,” cried he, “can you not bid somebody watch?”
’Twas rather an awkward commission, but I felt it would be an awkwardness still less pleasant to me to decline it, and therefore I called Columb, and desired he would let me know when the queen returned.
He was then easier, and laughed a little, while he explained himself, “Should they come in and find me reading here before I could put away my book, they would say we were two blue stockings!”
At tea Miss Planta again joined us, and instantly behind him went the book. He was very right; for nobody would have thought it more odd — or more blue.
During this repast they returned home, but all went straight upstairs, the duke wholly occupying the king - and Mr. Bunbury went to the play. When Miss Planta, therefore, took her evening stroll, “Akenside” again came forth, and with more security.
“There is one ode here,” he cried, “that I wish to read to you, and now I think I can.”
I told him I did not in general like Akenside’s odes, at least what I had chanced to read, for I thought they were too inflated, and filled with “liberty cant.”
“But this, however,” cried he, “I must read to you, it is so pretty, though it is upon love!”
’Tis addressed to Olympia: I dare say my dearest Fredy recollects it.(289) It is, indeed, most feelingly written; but we had only got through the first stanza when the door Suddenly opened, and enter Mr. Bunbury.
After all the precautions taken, to have him thus appear at the very worst moment! Vexed as I was, I could really have laughed; but Mr. Fairly was ill disposed to take it so merrily. He started, threw the book forcibly behind him, and instantly took up his hat, as if decamping. I really believe he was afraid Mr. Bunbury would caricature us “The sentimental readers!” or what would he have called us? Luckily this confusion passed unnoticed. Mr. Bunbury had run away from the play to see after the horses, etc., for his duke, and was fearful of coming too late. plays and players now took up all the discourse, with Miss W — , till the duke was ready to go. They then left me together, Mr. Fairly smiling drolly enough in departing, and looking at “Akenside” with a very arch shrug, as who should say “What a scrape you had nearly drawn me into, Mr. Akenside!”
THE DOCTOR’s EMBARRASSMENT.
Sunday, Aug. 3.-This morning I was so violently oppressed by a cold, which turns out to be the influenza, it was with the utmost difficulty I could dress myself. I did indeed now want some assistant most wofully.
The princess royal has already been some days disturbed with this influenza. When the queen perceived it in me she told his majesty, who came into the room just as she was going to breakfast. Without making any answer, he himself went immediately to call Mr. Clerk, the apothecary, who was then with the princess royal.
“Now, Mr. Clerk,” cried he, “here’s another patient for you.”
Mr. Clerk, a modest, sensible man, concluded, by the king himself having called him, that it was the queen he had now to attend, and he stood bowing profoundly before her but soon observing she did not notice him, he turned in some confusion to the Princess Augusta, who was now in the group.
“No, no! it’s not me, Mr. Clerk, thank God!” cried the gay
Princess Augusta.
Still more confused, the poor man advanced to Princess Elizabeth.
“No, no; it’s not her!” cried the king.
I had held back, having scarce power to open my eyes, from a vehement head-ache, and not, indeed, wishing to go through my examination till there were fewer witnesses. But his majesty now drew me out.
“Here, Mr. Clerk,” he cried, “this is your new patient!”
He then came bowing up to me, the king standing close by, and the rest pretty near.
“You — you are not well, ma’am?” he cried in the greatest embarrassment,
“No, sir, not quite,” I answered in ditto.
“O, Mr. Clerk will cure you!” cried the king.
“Are-are you feverish, ma’am?”
“Yes, sir, a little.”
“I — I will send you a saline draught, ma’am.”
“If you please.”
And then he bowed and decamped.
Did you ever hear a more perfectly satisfactory examination? The poor modest man was overpowered by such royal listeners and spectators, and I could not possibly relieve him, for I was little better myself.
I went down to breakfast, but was so exceedingly oppressed I could not hold up my head, and as soon as I could escape I went to my own room, and laid down till my noon attendance, which I performed with so much difficulty I was obliged to return to the same indulgence the moment I was at liberty.
FROM GRAVE TO GAY.
Down at last I went, slow and wrapped up. I found Mr. Fairly alone in the parlour, reading letters with such intentness that he did not raise his head, and with an air of the deepest dejection. I remained wholly unnoticed a considerable time; but at last he looked up, and with some surprise, but a voice O of extreme sadness, he said, “Is that Miss Burney? I thought it had been Miss Planta.”
I begged him to read on, and not mind me; and I called for tea. When we had done tea, “See, ma’am,” he cried, “I have brought You ‘Carr,’ and here is a sermon upon the text I mean, when I preach, to choose ‘Keep innocency, and take heed to the thing that is right; for that will bring a man peace at the last.’”
Sincerely I commended his choice; and we had a most solemn discussion of happiness, not such as coincides with gaiety here, but hope of salvation hereafter. His mind has so religious a propensity, that it seems to me, whenever he leaves it to its natural bent, to incline immediately and instinctively to subjects of that holy nature.
Humility, he said, in conclusion, humility was all in all for tranquillity of mind; with that, little was expected and much was borne, and the smallest good was a call for gratitude and content. How could this man be a soldier? Might one not think he was bred in the cloisters?
“Well,” cried he, again taking up the volume of “Carr,” “I will just sit and read this sermon, and then quietly go home.”
He did so, feelingly, forcibly, solemnly; it is an excellent sermon; yet so read — he so sad, and myself so ill — it was almost too much for me, and I had some difficulty to behave with proper propriety. To him subjects of this sort, ill or well, bring nothing, I believe, but strength as well as comfort. The voice of dejection with which he began ch
anged to one of firmness ere he had read three pages.
Something he saw of unusual sinking, notwithstanding what I hid; and, with a very kind concern, when he had finished the sermon, he said, “Is there anything upon your spirits?”
“No,” I assured him, “but I was not well; and mind and body seemed to go together sometimes, when they did not.”
“But they do go together,” cried he, “and will.”
However, he took no further- notice: he is like me, for myself, in that — that whatever he thinks only bodily is little worth attention; and I did not care to risk explaining to his strong and virtuous mind the many fears and mixed sensations of mine, when brought to a close disquisition of awaiting eternity.
I never, but with Mrs. Delany and Dr. Johnson, have entered so fully and so frequently upon this awful subject as with Mr. Fairly. My dear and most revered Mrs. Delany dwelt upon it continually, with joy, and pure, yet humble hope. My ever-honoured Dr. Johnson recurred to it perpetually, with a veneration compounded of diffidence and terror, and an incessant, yet unavailing plan, of amending all errors, and rising into perfection. Mr. Fairly leans upon it as the staff of his strength — the trust, the hope, the rest of his soul — too big for satisfaction in aught this world has given, or can reserve for him.’
He did not, however, “go quietly home,” when he had finished the sermon; on the contrary, he revived in his spirits, and animated in his discourse, and stayed on.
In speaking of the king he suddenly recollected some very fine lines of Churchill, made on his accession to the throne. I wish I could transcribe them, they are so applicable to that good king, from that moment of promise to the present of performance. But I know not in what part of Churchill’s works they may be found.
Finding me unacquainted with his poems he then repeated several passages, all admirably chosen; but among them his memory called forth some that were written upon Lord H — , which were of the bitterest severity I ever heard: — whether deserved or not, Heaven knows; but Mr. Fairly said he would repeat them, for the merit of the composition. There was no examining his opinion of their veracity, and he made no comments; but this: Lord H — was the famous man so often in the House of Commons accused of expending, or retaining, unaccounted millions
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 587