prisoner with a few second-hand and very shabby
"properties" of an idol.

"The life we led at Warwick House was exactly
that of a child and its nurse," says Miss
Knight; the child being then a well-grown, finely-
developed young woman, with a decided will of
her own, and the object of all the matrimonial
intrigues convulsing half the courts in Europe.
One of the many annoyances heaped on this poor
"child" was being kept very close in money
matters. She was allowed only ten pounds a month
for her own private pocket money, but afterwards
this was increased to fifteen, out of which she
had to find her losses at play, always very heavy;
make presents, which she was very fond of doing,
and ever of the most handsome and costly
description; do all her little charities, and buy all
her little knick-knacks. We must acknowledge
that fifteen pounds a month was not quite the
amount usually ascribed to the ideal princess
who gives away diamond rings, and pearl necklaces,
and magnificent estates, and fairy palaces
with bewildering profusion; who is never at a
loss for means to equip armies or navies at her
pleasure, or to pension off faithful pages and
constant damsels, with some fabulous amount of
dower and pin-money; and who makes the
astounding fortunes of a whole family if they
chance to strike her royal fancy, and are not too
virtuous to accept her royal bounty. Fifteen
pounds a month could not do much of all this;
and even with all Mrs. Lewis's economy, and
turning and twisting about of old silks and well
worn laces, her patching up of two antiquities
to make one very doubtful novelty, eight hundred
a year for dress and private expenditure
was not exactly the sum one would have thought
sufficient for the heiress of the royal revenues of
England.

The "child" had a gouvernante—the Duchess
of Leeds—as well as the nurse, who was the
travelled Miss Cornelia Knight; but the duchess
was a very good, easy woman, "who had no
inclination to quarrel with anybody," and still less
to coerce her royal charge; and so was of very
little obstruction or offence in the path of the
high-spirited young lady, whom, indeed, it
would have been no easy matter for any one to
coerce. "Provided that she might ride two or
three times a week at Hall's—a second-rate
riding-school—on an old, quiet horse, for exercise,
get into her shower-bath, and take calomel when
she pleased, dine out, and go to all parties when
invited, shake hands with everybody, and touch
her salary, she cared for nothing more except
when mischievous people, to plague her, or
curious gossips to find out what was going on,
talked to her about Princess Charlotte's petticoats
being too short, of her royal highness
nodding instead of bowing, or talking to the
maids of honour at chapel between the prayers
and the sermon." Then the poor duchess
became miserable and bilious, cried in her sleep,
and besought the "nurse" to speak exhortatory
words to their joint charge, as she herself was
far too nervous to do anything of the kind unless
driven to the last extremity. She was a very
placid, amiable kind of gaoler, far too amiable,
indeed, for her employers, while priggish,
conscientious, well-intentioned Miss Knight passed
everybody, both employers and charge, by her
inordinate amount of sensibility, and the
extraordinary quantity of incense she daily burned.
But, above all, she fussed everybody by her
passion for letter-writing. If the queen—old
Queen Charlotte, too, as if any one in their
senses would have cared for what she did or
did not do!—did not speak to her as usual,
there was a correspondence; if she disdainfully
called her a "sub-governess," and not
a "lady companion," there was a correspondence;
if Princess Charlotte shook hands with
her more coldly to-day than yesterday, or did
not shake hands with her at all, there was a
correspondence. In short, there was a long letter
sent to some one on every possible occasion; for
Miss Knight was famous for her pen, and, evidently
proud of her powers of writing, so diligently
inflicted her productions on all the royal
family, and all the great personages with whom
she could connect herself, in the most provoking
manner possible. Among the troubles of the
young princess, I think Miss Cornelia Knight
may count as one of the most oppressive if one
of the least hostile.

Then the princess had the trouble—very
annoying to a young girl not disinclined to a
little stately flirtation—of being watched and
whispered about, whenever she spoke to any
gentleman of the circle. If her cousin the Duke
of Gloucester sat by her at a ball, she was
desired to change her seat, so as to be divided
from him: if the Duke of Devonshire danced
with her once too often, there were all sorts of
winks, and nods, and hints, and innuendoes; not
that this was objected to—not the least in the
world; for the duke was romantic and ardent,
the princess frank and handsome, with beautiful
shoulders and lovely little feet; and both the
Regent and his ministers saw the political
importance of making the most of her charms, if by
them they could attach to their own special party
any influential and as yet dubious and unconverted
partisan. But the princess, not entering
into all this, and only caring for a little innocent
liberty, used to come home "hurt and indignant
at having been watched and worried;" and so
even the few balls to which she was admitted
were more pain than pleasure to her, much as
she would have enjoyed herself if they had but
let her alone, and suffered her to be natural and
gay in her own manner. But though the Regent
and his ministers did not object to the attentions
of the Duke of Devonshire while they thought
they could turn them to account, no sooner did
the Prince of Orange appear on the scene, than
the poor duke was flung overboard, and now
there could not be too much reticence and
formality. The Duchess of Leeds, correct Miss
Knight, and their royal charge, were all severely
rated and reprimanded one day for having been
seen driving twice in the day on the Chiswick-road,
when the duke was giving a grand breakfast
there. Twittering slavey Cornelia devotedly