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With Johnson dead, and Crisp dead, and Mrs. Piozzi alienated by her marriage, life – it may be imagined – must, in these days, have seemed unusually gloomy to Fanny Burney. But fortunately, though her feelings were strong, her temperament was elastic. And the successful author of Cecilia had now troops of friends, both new and old. To those she respected, it was her nature to grow rapidly and devotedly attached. Even for some weeks before Johnson’s fatal illness, her letters had been dated from Norbury – a charming country-house upon a hill-slope in Surrey, looking southward across the Mole and the beautiful Vale of Mickleham, to Dorking and Box Hill. Here – in addition to a park with a Druids’ Grove of yews that dated from Domesday Book, and a saloon with trellised ceiling, where the landscapes of George Barret cunningly completed the magnificent view from the windows – she enjoyed the companionship of a host and hostess, who, if not as remarkable as her Streatham friends, were at least as cultured and as kind. Mr. Locke of Norbury was a genuine connoisseur, who had brought the Discobolus of Myron to England, while his son William, a youth of seventeen, was to become a capable historical artist. Mrs. Locke, – the “dearest Fredy” of the Diary, according to Miss Burney, was “sweet and most bewitching.” At Norbury, where, on fine days, they wandered in the grounds; or on wet days, read Mme. de Sévigné and Captain Cook aloud in the picture room, Fanny seems to have been thoroughly content to “stay till she must go,” driving unpleasant thought away like “a wasp near an open window.” What was more, she was in a sense en pays de connaissance, for Norbury was only six miles from that other regretted “place of peace, ease, freedom and cheerfulness,” Chessington Hall. During the next few months her visits to the Lockes were frequent; and in later years, she was to know them even better still. Meanwhile, to her delight, her sister Susan made Mickleham her residence, occupying with her husband and family a little cottage on the high road at the very foot of Norbury Park.

But besides her relations with the Lockes of Norbury, she formed, at this date, another friendship, of which the consequences, during the years that immediately followed, were of no small importance. Early in 1783, she had been taken by Mrs. Chapone to visit the venerable Mrs. Delany (the widow of Swift’s friend, Dr. Patrick Delany), then living in London at St. James’s Place. At this time, Mrs. Delany was eighty-three, a charming and accomplished old lady, with a reputation for cutting out the ingenious “paper Mosaiks” now in the British Museum; a great favourite with King George and Queen Charlotte; and the bosom friend of another old lady and grande dame, Prior’s “Peggy,” the Dowager Duchess of Portland. Both Mrs. Delany and her friend (who arrived shortly after Fanny reached St. James’s Place) had been prejudiced against Cecilia, – the Duchess chiefly from recollections of the cruel depression into which she had been thrown by the tedium and the tragedy of Richardson’s Clarissa. But they had both succumbed to Fanny’s book; they knew its characters by heart; told stories how lords and prelates had discussed the incidents and the characters, and finally crowned their commendations by praising its excellent tone and morality. “No book” – said Mrs. Delany – “ever was so useful as this, because none other that is so good was ever so much read.” And the Duchess and Mrs. Chapone said ditto to Mrs. Delany. Mrs. Chapone, by the way, told an interesting anecdote. Someone, she said, had been protesting that there could be no such character as Briggs, whom not only Queen Charlotte but Mrs. Thrale had regarded as exaggerated.⁵⁶ Thereupon “a poor, little mean city man” in company had “started up, and said – ‘But there is though, for I’se one myself.’ ”

The friendship thus inaugurated speedily became enduring; and Fanny’s record for 1784 contains more than one reference to days spent at St. James’s Place, sometimes en tête-à-tête, when she was allowed to rummage Mrs. Delany’s correspondence with Swift and Young or listen to her old stories of the notabilities of the first half of the century. In July, 1785, the Duchess of Portland died; and the loss drew Fanny closer to her new friend. Another result of the Duchess’s death was, that it deprived Mrs. Delany of the summer quarters which she had for so many years enjoyed at Bulstrode, the seat of the Portlands near Beaconsfield. Upon learning this, the King and Queen, whose affection for Mrs. Delany seems to have been of the most genuine kind, offered her a small house near the gate of Windsor Castle, which, with the greatest forethought, they immediately stocked and put in order for her, the King himself personally superintending the workmen. They also gave her a pension of £300 a year, which, in order that it might escape taxation, the good-natured Queen herself was accustomed to hand to her half-yearly in a pocket-book. Pending Mrs. Delany’s removal to Windsor, Fanny was often in attendance on her, either as companion or sympathiser. When, at last, she departed, Fanny went to Norbury, and elsewhere. But in November, 1785, she was again “domesticated” with Mrs. Delany at Windsor.

One of the first things which she heard upon her arrival was, that Their Majesties had been expecting her. All the Princesses were coming to see her – she was told. Moreover, the Queen, stimulated by Mme. de Genlis’ praises of Miss Burney, had been re-reading Cecilia, or rather having it read to her by one of her readers, the Swiss geologist, M. de Luc. (As M. de Luc could hardly speak four words of English, this must have been unfortunate for Cecilia.) The book had also been read to the Princess Elizabeth. These announcements, and the particular inquiries which the King and Queen did not cease to make about her of Mrs. Delany, naturally filled Fanny with all her customary trepidations, real and imaginary. Owing, however, to the illness of the Princess Elizabeth and other causes, the meeting did not at once take place. Then suddenly, on Friday, December 16, “a large man, in deep mourning,” and with a star glittering on his breast, made sudden apparition in Mrs. Delany’s drawing room, throwing its occupants into petrified confusion. It was King George himself. He spoke very kindly to Miss Burney, showing much benevolent consideration for her nervousness; but overwhelmed her presently by questions after the “What! What!” fashion, made familiar by the Probationary Odes and the irreverent performances of “Peter Pindar.” How did she write Evelina– and why? Why did she not tell her father? How was it printed? Why had she done nothing more since Cecilia? To which last Fanny answered demurely and hesitatingly that she believed she had exhausted herself, – a reply which was received in the light of a bon mot. During the progress of this inquisition, which is recorded with extreme minuteness, arrived Queen Charlotte, to whom His Majesty forthwith carefully recapitulated his conversation with Miss Burney. The Queen, who was very soft-voiced and gracious, was equally curious. She wished much to know if there was to be “nothing more”; and she was good enough to express a desire that there should be something. From what had been done, she thought there was a power to do good. And good to young people was so very good a thing, that she could not help wishing it could be. Thereupon the King – as one behind the scenes – proceeded to assure her that Miss Burney had made no vow not to write; – it was only a question of inclination – was it not? They were, both of them, evidently prepossessed in favour of Mrs. Delany’s young friend, who, on her side, does ample justice to the unaffected, gentle dignity of Queen Charlotte; the bonhomie, good spirits, and friendly kindness of the King; and the fondness of the royal couple for one another.

A few days later, the King came again to tea, chatting very freely in his discursive way of many things, – of Mme. de Genlis’ knowledge of English; of the “monster” Voltaire; of the pride and ingratitude of Rousseau (to whom His Majesty had given a pension). But here Miss Burney was able to acquaint him, on her father’s authority, that M. Jean-Jacques kept His Majesty’s portrait over his chimney at Paris. Then the King passed to the recent death of Kitty Clive;⁵⁷ and the merits of Mrs. Siddons, whom he ranked above Garrick – an opinion from which Fanny could of course only mutely dissent. Shakespeare came next; and His Majesty – as is known – had the courage of his opinions. “Was there ever such stuff as great part of Shakespeare? only one must not say so! – But what think you? – What? – Is there not sad stuff? – What? – What?” And he instanced several plays and characters in support of his heresies. Fanny told him how Mme. de Genlis had declared that no woman ought to go to any of the English comedies, – an aspersion of the national stage which was resented with much animation by the discerning critic who had twice ordered the representation of She Stoops to Conquer. In a further “private conference” with his consort, there was more talk of Mme. de Genlis, who, it seems, always sent her “moral page” to Queen Charlotte; – of the Sorrows of Werther, which neither she nor Fanny admired as the great Napoleon did; – of an unnamed but meritorious work picked up for her upon a stall by one of her servants. “It is amazing what good books there are on stalls” – said the Queen – an utterance which should canonise her for ever with the book-hunter. She afterwards spoke of Klopstock’s Messiah, criticising the author’s engraftments upon the sacred story; and then gave an account of the Protestant nunneries in Germany, to one of which she had belonged, – of the rigid rules of entrance, – of the internal economy, – of the costume. The record of the interview breaks off abruptly; but it leaves a pleasant impression of Queen Charlotte’s amenity, humour, and conversational powers.

This meeting took place on December 20th, 1785, after which Miss Burney went home. She paid another visit to Windsor in the May following with her father, who was anxious to obtain the then-vacant post of Master of the King’s Band. To this end he was recommended to show himself to the King, when he walked upon the Terrace at Windsor; but not to make direct solicitation. Unhappily, the place had already been promised by the Lord Chamberlain; and though both the King and Queen spoke amiably to Miss Burney, the expedition was without effect. Very shortly afterwards, by the resignation of Mrs. Haggerdorn, Second Keeper of Robes, a vacancy occurred in the Royal Household. Mrs. Haggerdorn’s place was much sought after, even by persons of fashion and rank. But the Queen had taken a fancy to Mrs. Delany’s visitor, and offered it to Miss Burney. By Fanny herself the proposition was received with consternation. The separation from her family circle, the close confinement to the Court, the permanent character of an engagement so made, the wearisome “life of attendance and dependence” – we are using her own words – all these things she considered were unsuited to her inclinations, and unfavourable to her happiness. But her friends – who, it is only fair to remember, knew her literary limitations, and were better instructed as to her literary gains than some of her earlier critics – took a different view of the matter. The Lockes and her sister, Mrs. Phillips, had, indeed, always expected some such development of her Windsor visits: Mrs. Delany – a courtier in grain – was naturally transported; while her father (in whose hands she dutifully placed herself), and even Burke, regarded the royal offer as affording a certain prospect of an honourable and advantageous establishment for life. It was accordingly accepted, after an interview with the Queen, who, in the face of all the Windsor place-hunters, had made her own choice. “I was led to think of Miss Burney” – Her Majesty told Mrs. Delany – “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 Fanny herself, Queen Charlotte asked no questions, only saying pleasantly – “I am sure we shall do very well together.”

CHAPTER VI
THE QUEEN’S DRESSER

On the 6th of July, 1786, the Public Advertiser announced that – “Miss Burney, daughter of Dr. Burney, is appointed Dresser to the Queen, in the room of Mrs. Hoggadore, gone to Germany.” The last three words were premature, for further notifications, with much pleasing and ingenious variation of Mrs. Haggerdorn’s name, made it clear that the lady in question only took leave of the Queen on the 13th, and retired to her native Mecklenburg on the 17th. She is described in the public print aforesaid as Her Majesty’s “confidential companion and dresser”; but in the Court Register she figures as one of two “Keepers of Robes,” the Senior Keeper being a Mrs. Schwellenberg (or Schwellenbergen), who, with Mrs. Haggerdorn, had accompanied the Queen from Germany five and twenty years earlier. To Mrs. Haggerdorn’s post, with some modification of duties, Miss Burney now succeeded, entering upon her office on the 17th July. As – for lack of repairs – Windsor Castle had been for some years uninhabitable, the Royal Family were at this time domiciled in two temporary buildings, described indifferently by topographers as “mansions” and “barracks.” These had been built for the King by Sir William Chambers. The larger, the Upper or Queen’s Lodge,⁵⁸ so called from its occupying the site of a former Queen Anne’s Lodge, was appropriated to Queen Charlotte, King George and the two elder Princesses – the Princess Royal and the Princess Augusta. It stood to the south east of the Castle, almost facing the South Terrace. Behind it was a large walled garden, where Herschel exhibited newly discovered comets to the Court; and at the end of this garden was the second or Lower Lodge, allotted to the younger branches of the Royal Family. Both these structures were of stuccoed red brick, with embattled copings. They were draughty and cold in winter. Miss Burney’s apartments, a bed-room and a large drawing-room, were on the ground-floor in the Upper Lodge. The drawing-room looked on the Round Tower and the Terrace; and was probably at the eastern corner, as she speaks of its opening at the farther side, from the windows, to the Little Park, which lay to the north and east of the Castle. The bed-room (which was entered from the sitting-room) looked into the garden. Immediately above her were the rooms of her colleague, Mrs. Schwellenberg. Fanny describes her quarters as “airy, pleasant, clean and healthy,” “delightfully independent of all the rest of the house,” and as containing “everything I can desire for my convenience and comfort.” Mrs. Delany was not fifty yards away; and she could readily obtain access to the South Terrace by a special flight of steps. At Kew, to which Their Majesties frequently migrated, she had also her special accommodation, rather contracted, after the fashion of the place, but “tidy and comfortable enough”; and at St. James’s Palace she occupied rooms, one of which looked over the Park. From other indications, it appears that she had her special man-servant; and, in common with Mrs. Schwellenberg, the use of a carriage. Her salary was £200 a year.

After a week, she began to realise her position and to draw up “a concise abstract of the general method of passing the day.” Concise though it be, it is too detailed to be reproduced entire, but must be further summarised as follows: – She rose at six, awaiting her first summons, which generally came at half-past seven, after the Queen’s hair had been dressed by Mrs. Thielky, her wardrobe-woman. Then, with Mrs. Thielky’s aid, she dresses the Queen, Mrs. Thielky’s office being to hand Fanny the things as they are required, – a fortunate detail, since, as she says, she might run “a prodigious risk of giving the gown before the hoop, or the fan before the neckerchief.” By eight the dressing is ended, and the Queen, with the King and Princesses, proceeds to the King’s Chapel to prayers, while Fanny goes to breakfast, dawdling meanwhile over a book – for the moment, Gilpin’s Observations on the Lake District, which Mrs. Delany has lent her. At nine she meditates upon her next immediate business, which generally resolves itself into questions of costume. This done, she is generally her own mistress until a quarter to twelve, occupying the time, if it be not absorbed by the aforesaid questions of costume, in writing or walking. At a quarter before one the Queen usually dresses for the day, when Mrs. Schwellenberg, as well as the “inferior priestesses,” is present. The Queen is powdered by her hairdresser, during which time she reads the newspaper. “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 some little paragraph aloud.”

After a short time Fanny is again summoned, and her further attendance, transferred to the state dressing-room (“if any room in this private mansion can have the epithet of state”), lasts until about three, after which she sees no more of the Queen until bed-time. At five, dinner en tête-à-tête with Mrs. Schwellenberg follows in the eating-room, after which coffee in that lady’s apartment takes until eight. At eight, descent once more to the eating-room, when the Equerry in Waiting, together with any friend invited by the King or Queen, arrives for tea, which takes till nine. “From that time,” – continues Fanny – “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.” To these details, it is only necessary to add that the summonses in question were made by a bell (which seems at first to have given Fanny a good deal of annoyance); and that it was also a part of her duties to mix the Queen’s snuff, – a task which she is recorded to have performed extremely well.

From the above account, it may be gathered that attendance on Queen Charlotte was by no means the most onerous of Miss Burney’s functions. Occupying chiefly the middle of the day, it could only have been on Wednesdays and Saturdays (when there were special duties) that it extended to more than four hours, besides which Her Majesty seems to have been laudably solicitous, at all times, to spare her new and very untried attendant. But in Fanny’s carte du jour there is decidedly an “intolerable deal” of Schwellenberg. Six mortal hours of daily intercourse with this estimable lady, in addition to collaborating with her in what Fanny calls “the irksome and quick-returning labours” of the royal toilette, must have been a cruel penance, only made bearable by Mrs. Schwellenberg’s frequent absences on sick leave. Had Mrs. Schwellenberg been a Mrs. Delany, it would not have mattered so much. But she was simply a peevish old person of uncertain temper and impaired health, swaddled in the buckram of backstairs etiquette, captious, arrogant, ignorant, and accustomed – like Mrs. Slipslop – to console herself for her servility to her betters by her rudeness to those beneath her. She was blindly devoted to the Royal Family; but of taste and education she had nothing. Novels and romances she professed to regard as “what you call stuff”;⁵⁹ and the only book she was known to favour was Josephus, which was “quoted to solve all difficulties.” Her chief enthusiasm was for a pair of pet frogs which croaked when she tapped her snuff-box. “When I only go so.. knock, knock, knock, they croak all what I please,” she would cry in an ecstasy; and she never wearied of dilating upon their “endearing little qualities” and their healthy appetite for the live flies caught for them by M. de Luc. Although she had been a quarter of a century in England, she still spoke a broken jargon, irresistible to the mimic. She was without conversational gifts, yet she could not endure a moment’s silence; she was without resources or power of attraction, yet she was furious at the least suspicion of neglect. Moreover, she seems to have lived in perpetual apprehension of obscure impending spasms, which could only be dissipated by cards. And Fanny hated cards. In moments of irritation, the old lady was capable of the meanest petty tyrannies; in her hours of ease, her amiability to her “good Miss Bernar” was as profuse as it was unpalatable. Several of her objectionable acts are narrated in the Diary; but it is needless to recall them; and the situation was obviously complicated by a perhaps intelligible jealousy on the part of the elder woman. Years afterwards, when the Diary was first published, the Duke of Sussex thought that its writer was “rather hard on poor old Schwellenberg”; and it is not impossible that Miss Burney may have somewhat heightened her delineation of a character which afforded so many inviting aspects of attack. Yet, though “Cerbera” or “La Présidente” – as Fanny calls her – may not have been as black as she is painted, it would be hopeless to attempt to decorate her with wings; and there can be little doubt that the happiest hours of the Junior Keeper were those when her untuneable colleague was safely laid up in London or Weymouth with the gout.

Fortunately for Miss Burney all her associates were not of the Schwellenberg type. Miss Planta, English teacher to the two elder Princesses; Miss Goldsworthy (familiarly “Goully”), the sub-governess; Mme. la Fite, who read French to the Queen; and Mme. de Luc, the wife of the fly-catcher, were all amiable enough. And several of the successive Equerries in Waiting, if not actually qualified to regale Mrs. Haggerdorn’s successor with that “celestial colloquy sublime,” to which Lord Macaulay makes reference, were at least English gentlemen, with pleasant idiosyncrasies of their own, not wholly unworthy of study. There was Miss Goldsworthy’s brother, Colonel Philip Goldsworthy, a wag in his way, who relates how the King ineffectually endeavoured to make him carouse on barley water after a hard day’s hunting; and who gave a dismally picturesque account of winter service in the ill-constructed Queen’s Lodge, where there must have been as many distinct and several draughts as there are smells in the City of Cologne. There is the “Colonel Welbred” of the record, – Colonel Fulke Greville, – quiet, polite and undemonstrative; there is Colonel Manners, a good-humoured, careless rattle, who says whatever comes into his head, and thinks he might manage to sing the 104th Psalm if he could only keep from running into “God Save the King”; there is the “Jessamy Bride’s” handsome husband, Colonel Gwyn; there is Major Price; there is the Queen’s Vice Chamberlain, the Hon. Stephen Digby (“Colonel Fairly”), grave, scrupulous, diffident, gentle, sentimental, and “assiduously attentive in his manners.” He is at present married to Lord Ilchester’s daughter, by whom he has four children; but is soon to be a widower. Lastly, absorbing many pages of the record, is “Mr. Turbulent,” otherwise the Rev. Charles de Guiffardière or Giffardier, the Queen’s French reader, a farceur of the first order, who, apparently to indemnify himself for the penitential monotony of his past relations with Mrs. Haggerdorn, – a molluscous personage whom he contemptuously styles “the Oyster,” – indulges Miss Burney with the most fantastic disquisitions, flights of rodomontade and mock adoration. Macaulay roundly writes this gentleman down “half witted,” which is too sweeping; while the charitable Croker opines that he was laughing at Fanny. Miss Burney’s own later verdict upon “Mr. Turbulent” is, that he was “here and there a little eccentric, but, in the main, merely good-humoured and high-spirited.”⁶⁰

In thus bringing some of the personages of the Diary before the reader, it has naturally been necessary to anticipate. The narrative of Miss Burney’s life at Court is excessively minute; and the chronicle, interesting as it may be in its place, does not always concern what is the prime object of this volume, – the story of her life. One of the first things, for instance, which she has to set down – indeed it happened before she had been three weeks in office – is mad Peg Nicholson’s attempt on the King’s life, an event which, of course, belongs to history. But Miss Burney’s pages add to the story some of those vivid minor details which the daughter of Mnemosyne forgets. She shows us the admirable composure of King George amid his terrified and tearful household; she shows him cheerfully insisting on the usual terrace walk with a single equerry, – on the usual evening concert. But “nothing was listened to,” – says Miss Burney of this latter, – “scarce a word was spoken; the Princesses wept continually; the Queen, still more deeply struck, could only, from time to time, hold out her hand to the King, and say ‘I have you yet.’ ” To this we may oppose another and more smiling passage. A few days later came the birthday of the little Princess Amelia; and Fanny’s account gives a good idea of one of the popular “terracings” above referred to. “It was really a mighty pretty procession,” she says. “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 pleased King and Queen with the remainder of the Princesses, – the Princess Royal, the Princesses Augusta, Elizabeth, Mary, Sophia, and their attendants; then, at a little distance, Major Price, the Equerry in Waiting, bringing up the rear to keep off the crowd.

Miss Burney was on the terrace with Mrs. Delany, who had been carried in her chair to the foot of the steps. At sight of Fanny’s companion, “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 enquiry 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 to me, saying, ‘O, a brown fan!’ The King and Queen then bid her curtsey to Mrs. Delany, which she did most gracefully, and they all moved on; each of the Princesses speaking to Mrs. Delany as they passed, and condescending to curtsey to her companion.”

One of the next things related is a royal visit to Nuneham (Lord Harcourt’s), which included excursions to Oxford and Blenheim. Miss Burney was one of the party, but – to use a phrase of Horace Walpole – did not greatly feel the joy of it, owing to the many discomforts and fatigues arising out of the defective arrangements which had been made for the Royal Suite. Mrs. Schwellenberg had assured her that she should “appear for nobody,” and the assurance was very literally carried out. It was in connection with this Nuneham trip that occurred the incident of the gown which has so much exercised some of Fanny’s biographers. Just before the visit took place, Mrs. Schwellenberg informed “Miss Bernar,” with much patronising importance, that she was to have a gown, as the Queen said she was not rich. Fanny protested that [like Dogberry] she had two gowns, and did not need another. “Miss Bernar,” said the scandalised old lady, “I tell you once, when the Queen will give you a gown, you must be humble, thankful, when [even if] you are Duchess of Ancaster,” —i. e. Mistress of the Robes. Further, she was not to be allowed to thank the Queen herself. “When I give you the gown,” added Mrs. Schwellenberg, “I will tell you when you may make your curtsey” – and then for the time the disagreeable conversation stopped. It does not appear that Fanny got her gown in time for Nuneham, as she went in a Chambéry gauze of her own. But it is an error to say – as Lord Macaulay does – that Queen Charlotte’s promise was “never performed,” for a few days later, in September, we find her wearing her “memorable present-gown” in honour of the birthday of the Princess Royal. It was “a lilac tabby,” we are told; and the King professed to admire it greatly, calling out that “Emily [i. e. the Princess Amelia] should see Miss Burney’s gown now, and she would think her fine enough.” But from a subsequent entry, it appears that it had been given through Mrs. Schwellenberg, for Miss Burney refers to the far greater pleasure that she received from a gift of violets presented to her by the Queen herself. Lord Macaulay, in his unwillingness to believe that Miss Burney obtained any “extraordinary benefactions” from Their Majesties, also overlooked the fact that, both in 1787, and 1788, Miss Burney received (though always through Mrs. Schwellenberg) New Year’s presents from the Queen. On the first occasion it was “a complete set of very beautiful white and gold china for tea, and a coffee-pot, tea-pot, cream-jug, and milk-jug of silver, in forms remarkably pretty.” In 1788 it was a gift of plate.⁶¹