At three o'clock the ceremony is finished;
and "the celebrated authoress" has actually
two hours of freedom. Is she jotting
down notes for "Camilla," or does she get
a breezy walk in the Little Park, shaded from
that July sun by those o'er-arching elms,
solemn as a cathedral aisle—as solemn, but
how much more sweet! Poor Fanny! she
also has had to put on her powdering
things—the hair-dresser has been with her
also a little after noon, and she has had no
leisure to read the newspaper. She must sit
still, lest the curls should be deranged, till
she goes to dine with cross Mrs. Schwellenberg,
punctually at five. No wonder that she gives
way to dejection of spirits, and mopes over
her diary. For three hours Fanny is tête-à-tête
with the superior lady of the dressing-room
mysteries, who propitiates the novice
after this fashion: "I tell you once, I shall
do for you what I can; you are to have a
gown. The Queen will give you a gown!
The Queen says you are not rich." Fanny
pouts: "I have two new gowns, and therefore
do not require another."—"Miss Bernar,
I tell you once, when the Queen will give you
a gown, you must be humble, thankful."
Poor little Burney! At eight o'clock the
Equerry-in-waiting comes to tea in Mrs.
Schwellenberg's room, and with him any
gentlemen that the King or Queen may have
invited for the evening. Fanny, for an hour,
is in good society, as the world terms it; but
it is not quite the society to which she has
been accustomed. There is General Budé,
with a sneer in his smile that looks sarcastic;
but Major Price is kind and good-humoured;
and Colonel Goldsworthy, although a man of
but little cultivation or literature, delights in
a species of dry humour. An occasion arrives
for the "celebrated authoress" to form a
"grand design." Her superior is left in
London, and the presidency of the tea-table
devolves upon Miss Burney. She determines
to cut the Equerries, and goes out; she had
no official commands to make tea for them.
The man of little literature is angry, and
Miss Burney gets through the affair very
awkwardly. Fanny! you are tethered, you
had better not tug at the chain. The "sweet
Queen" is very condescending; but she rarely
lets Miss Burney forget that she is there as
the servant, and not as the novel-writer.
The Queen has gone out early with the King,
and Miss Burney thinks she may have a long
walk: she is too late for the noon-tide
dressing; but she rushes into the room where
Majesty is already under the hands of the
hairdresser, with no Burney to have disrobed her.
"Where have you been, Miss Burney?" It was
small compliment to the authoress of ''Evelina,"
when the thunder-cloud had passed, to
be told to look at Lady Frances Howard's
gown, and see if it was not very pretty.
But the poor thing receives it as kindness, and
dries her tears. It was kindness. The Queen
is really kind to her; but, within that circle,
there is an end of free will. The condition of
existence in those dreary walls is unmitigated
slavery. The very highest are the slaves of
their own forms; their attendants, from the
Lady of the Bedchamber to Miss Burney,
"the dresser,"—from the Lord Chamberlain
to Colonel Goldsworthy, the Equerry—are
equally slaves. The man of dry humour thus
describes the life which would have killed
Major Price, if he had not resigned: "Riding,
and walking, and standing, and bowing,—
what a life it is. Well; it's honour! that's
one comfort; one has the honour to stand till
one has not a foot left; and to ride till one's
stiff, and to walk till one's ready to drop; and
then one makes one's lowest bow, d'ye see, and
blesses one's-self with joy for the honour."
Fanny is never invited to hear the evening
concert; but Colonel Goldsworthy tells her
how those who do hear it have to stand in an
outer room for two hours. To be able to
stand for hours without dropping, to walk out
of a room backwards, and never to cough or
sneeze—these were the qualifications for a
court life, in the absence of which no talent
and no virtue would be equivalents.

We see the shadow of Fanny Burney, as on
two occasions, separated by an interval of less
than three months, she walks on Windsor
terrace.

On the 21st May, 1786—five months after
the introduction to royalty at Mrs. Delany's—
Doctor Burney, who is desirous to be
appointed Master of the King's Band, when the
decease should ensue of the then master, is
thus advised: "Take your daughter in your
hand, and walk upon the terrace; the King
will understand." The King was well experienced
in such hints. Was the Bishop of
A—— "in declining health,"—unquestionably
the Very Reverend the Dean of B—— would
be on Windsor Terrace with his daughter.
Was "Gold Stick" confined to his bed—
"Silver Stick" would soon be shining on
Windsor Terrace. We have seen the process
in our boyhood, some twenty years later than
the Sunday evening on which Miss Burney
stood to attract notice in this "Vanity
Fair." It was a curious scene. About
five o'clock, carriage after carriage began to
roll up the Castle hill. That hill was then a
sort of street, with house after house, close up
to the ugly barrack, called the Lodge, which
Sir William Chambers had erected opposite the
great southern gate of the Castle. That lodge
was the seat of Fanny Burney's griefs. It was
separated from the road to the terrace by an
enclosed lawn. The eastern terrace was the
great point of attraction. Here the aspirants
for royal smiles clustered on benches placed
under the Castle windows, whilst the commonalty
were happy to get a seat on the low
wall that looked down upon what was then a
smooth turf, but now a garden. There is a
sudden hush; a door is opened, and Majesty
is seen descending the steps. The bands
burst out with "God save the King!" the