finds him at tea with "the celebrated Miss
Burney." He is evidently in the way. Johnson,
in answer to something about parliamentary
speakers, says, "Why do you speak here?
Either to instruct or entertain, which is a
benevolent motive; or for distinction, which
is a selfish motive." The canny Scot disarms
him—he mentions "Cecilia;" and then Johnson,
with an air of animated satisfaction, as
the biographer records—"Sir, if you talk of
'Cecilia,' talk on."

The gentleness to Fanny, and the roughness
to Bozzy, are all over. Johnson has pressed
her hand for the last time, and said, "Ah, priez
Dieu pour moi."

It is the 16th of December, 1785, and "the
celebrated Miss Burney" is on a visit to
Mrs. Delany, at Windsor. This is the widow
of Dr. Delany, the friend and panegyrist of
Swift; so that she formed a link between the
times of George the Third and the times of
Anne. The King had given Mrs. Delany the
occupation of a small house close by the Royal
Lodge at Windsor; and he would occasionally
walk in for a gossip with the ancient lady.
The Queen, too, would sometimes come.
Fanny Burney had been in a flutter for many
days about these visits, ready to fly off if any
one knocked at the street-door. On this
wintry afternoon she is in the drawing-room,
with Mrs. Delany's niece, and a little girl,
playing at puss-in-the-corner. Without any
announcement, the door opens, and a large
man, in deep mourning, enters, shutting the
door himself. The niece exclaims, "Aunt,
the King, the King;" and the kittens rush to
the sides of the room, as if they had been
mice, and a real grimalkin had appeared
amongst them. Fanny is planted against the
wall, and she says, that she hoped to glide
out of the room; but Majesty asks, "Is that
Miss Burney?" And then, Miss Burney—
standing against the wall, as everybody else
stood, with the exception of the venerable lady
—had, after sundry royal monologues about
James's powder, and whooping-cough, and
rheumatism, the happiness (for who can
doubt that it was happiness) to hear the King
begin to talk about "Evelina;" and how she
never told her father about the book. Then
the King, coming up close, said, "But what?
what? how was it?"—"Sir!"— ''How came
you? how happened it? what? what? "—"I
—I—only wrote, sir, for my own amusement,
only in some odd idle hours."—"But vour
publishing, your printing, how was that?"—
"That was, sir, only because——" "What?"
—"I thought, sir, it would look very well in
print."— "Ha! ha! very fair, indeed! that's
being very fair and honest!"

Now comes the Queen—and then the King
repeats all that he had said, and all that
Miss Burney had said—and coming up to the
bewildered maiden again, asks, "Are you
musical?"—"Not a performer, sir." The
King crosses to the Queen, and communicates
the fact. But the royal curiosity is not quite
satisfied. "Are you sure you never play?
never touch the keys at all?"—"Never to
acknowledge it, sir."—"Oh that's it;" and
he imparts to the Queen, "She does play, but
not to acknowledge it." There is then a great
deal of talk in the middle of the room—while
those against the wall answer if spoken to—
when the Queen, in a low voice, says, "Miss
Burney;"—and upon Miss Burney coming up
to her, whispers—"But shall we have no
more—nothing more?" and Fanny cannot
but understand her, and shakes her head.

We see the shadow of "little Burney," as
she writes twenty pages of her diary on that
eventful evening, smiling with ineffable happiness,
and, we almost fear, forgetting that she
had lived with those whose commendation
was worth—shall we say it?—almost as much
as "the excessive condescension" to the
authoress standing against the wall in Mrs.
Delany's drawing-room.

In July 1786, Miss Burney has attained, in
the view of the world, a high promotion.
She is of the Queen's household. She has a
drawing-room and a bed-room in the Lodge
at Windsor; a footman, and two hundred
a year. Is the authoress of "Evelina" a
confidential amanuensis,—or English reader—or
instructress of a Princess? We see her shadow
in the unvarying course of her daily life.

Fanny rises at six o'clock. She dresses in
a morning-gown and cap, and waits her first
summons. What summons her? A bell.
"The celebrated Miss Burney," for a considerable
time, can never hear that bell without
a start, and a blush of conscious shame at
her own strange degradation. These are her
own words. Poor little Burney! Your father,
we would fain believe, forced you to wear
these chains of servitude; or perhaps you
thought that to wait upon a "sweet Queen"
as a lady's maid—yes, Fanny, a lady's maid,
nothing more nor less—was to be a bright
fairy dressing a born princess all in silk and
diamonds for a ball, where the fairy herself
might sometimes dance. It is really very
prosaic work; Miss Burney has a helper—
one Mrs. Thielky; but there is also a lady
above her in office, one Mrs. Schwellenberg.
Between seven and eight o'clock there is the
Queen's morning dressing. Mrs. Thielky
hands "the things," and Fanny puts them on.
At a quarter before one begins the dressing
for the day. Fanny ought to be dressed
herself before she enters the royal presence;
but, we grieve to say, she is often unpunctual
and half-unpowdered. Perhaps she has been
musing over the remembrance of the wisdom
of Burke, or the kindness of Reynolds, wrapt
in a dream of the old familiar faces. The
bell rings, and she must go. Mrs. Schwellenberg
is there, and Mrs. Thielky; and they
help the Queen off with her gown, and
on with her powdering things, and then
the hair-dresser is admitted; the Queen
reading the newspaper during the operation.