The Diary and Collected Letters of Madame D'Arblay, Frances Burney. Frances Burney
and then inquired after the whooping-cough. The children, he said, were better, and were going to Kew for some days, to change the air. He and the queen had been themselves, in the morning, to Kew, to see that their rooms were fit for their reception. He could not, he said, be easy to take any account but from his own eyes, when they were sick. He seems, indeed, one of the most tender fathers in the world.
I cannot pretend to write this meeting with the method and minuteness of the first; for that took me so long, that I have not time to spare for such another detail. Besides the novelty is now over, and I have not the same inducement to be so very circumstantial. But the principal parts of the conversation I will write, as I recollect.
Our party being so small, he made all that passed general; for though he principally addressed himself to Mrs. Delany, he always looked round to see that we heard him, and frequently referred to us.
I should mention, though, the etiquette always observed upon his entrance, which, first of all, is to fly off to distant quarters—and next, Miss Port goes out, walking backwards, for more candles, which she brings in, two at a time, and places upon the tables and pianoforte. Next she goes out for tea, which she then carries to his majesty, upon a large salver, containing sugar, cream, and bread and butter, and cake, while she hangs a napkin over her arm for his fingers.
When he has taken his tea, she returns to her station, where she waits till he has done, and then takes away his cup, and fetches more. This, it seems, is a ceremony performed in other places always by the mistress of the house; but here neither of their majesties will permit Mrs. Delany to attempt it.
Well; but to return. The king said he had just been looking over a new pamphlet, of Mr. Cumberland’s, upon the character of Lord Sackville,
“I have been asking Sir George Baker,” he said, “if he had read it, and he told me, yes, but that he could not find out why Cumberland had written it. However, that, I think, I found out in the second page. For there he takes an opportunity to give a high character of himself.”
He then enlarged more upon the subject, very frankly declaring in what points he differed from Mr. Cumberland about Lord Sackville; but as I neither knew him, nor had read the pamphlet, I could not at all enter into the subject.
Mrs. Delany then mentioned something of Madame de Genlis,166 upon which the king eagerly said to me,
“Oh, you saw her while she was here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And—did she speak English?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And how?”
“Extremely well, sir; with very great facility.”
“Indeed? that always surprises me in a foreigner that has not lived here.”
Her accent is foreign, however; but her language is remarkably ready.
He then spoke of Voltaire, and talked a little of his works, concluding with this strong condemnation of their tendency:—
“I,” cried he, “think him a monster, I own it fairly.”
Nobody answered. Mrs. Delany did not quite hear him, and I knew too little of his works to have courage to say anything about them.
He next named Rousseau, whom he seemed to think of with more favour, though by no means with approbation, Here, too, I had read too little to talk at all, though his majesty frequently applied to me. Mrs. Delany told several anecdotes which had come to her immediate knowledge of him while he was in England, at which time he had spent some days with her brother, Mr. Granville, at Calwich. The king, too, told others, which had come to his own ears, all charging him with savage pride and insolent ingratitude.
Here, however, I ventured to interfere; for, as I knew he had had a pension from the king, I could not but wish his majesty should be informed he was grateful to him. And as you, my dear father, were my authority, I thought it but common justice to the memory of poor Rousseau to acquaint the king of his personal respect for him.
“Some gratitude, sir,” said I, “he was not without. When my father was in Paris, which was after Rousseau had been in England, he visited him in his garret, and the first thing he showed him was your majesty’s portrait over his chimney.”
The king paused a little while upon this; but nothing more was said of Rousseau.
George III. On Plays and Players
Some time afterwards, the king said he found by the newspapers, that Mrs. Clive167 was dead.
Do you read the newspapers? thought I. O, king! you must then have the most unvexing temper in the world, not to run wild.
This led on to more players. He was sorry, he said, for Henderson,168 and the more as Mrs. Siddons had wished to have him play at the same house with herself. Then Mrs. Siddons took her turn, and with the warmest praise.
“I am an enthusiast for her,” cried the king, “quite an enthusiast, I think there was never any player in my time so excellent—not Garrick himself—I own it!”
Then, coming close to me, who was silent, he said,—“What? what?”—meaning, what say you? But I still said nothing; I could not concur where I thought so differently, and to enter into an argument was quite impossible; for every little thing I said, the king listened to with an eagerness that made me always ashamed of its insignificancy. And, indeed, but for that I should have talked to him with much greater fluency, as well as ease.
From players he went to plays, and complained of the great want of good modern comedies, and of the extreme immorality of most of the old ones.
“And they pretend,” cried he, “to mend them; but it is not possible. Do you think it is?—what?”
“No, sir, not often, I believe;—the fault, commonly, lies in the very foundation.”
“Yes, or they might mend the mere speeches—but the characters are all bad from the beginning to the end.”
Then he specified several; but I had read none of them, and consequently could say nothing about the matter—till, at last, he came to Shakspeare.
“Was there ever,” cried he, “such stuff as great part of Shakspeare only one must not say so! But what think you?—What?—Is there not sad stuff? what?—what?”
“Yes, indeed, I think so, sir, though mixed with such excellences, that——”
“O!” cried he, laughing good-humouredly, “I know it is not to be said! but it’s true. Only it’s Shakspeare, and nobody dare abuse him.”
Then he enumerated many of the characters and parts of plays that he objected to—and when he had run them over, finished with again laughing, and exclaiming,
“But one should be stoned for saying so!”
“Madame de Genlis, sir,” said I, “had taken such an impression of the English theatre, that she told me she thought no woman ought to go to any of our comedies.”
This, which, indeed, is a very overstrained censure of our dramas, made him draw back, and vindicate the stage from a sentence so severe; which, however, she had pronounced to me, as if she looked upon it to be an opinion in which I should join as a thing past dispute.
The king approved such a denunciation no more than his little subject; and he vindicated the stage from so hard an aspersion, with a warmth not wholly free from indignation.
This led on to a good deal more dramatic criticism; but what was said was too little followed up to be remembered for writing. His majesty stayed near two hours, and then wished Mrs. Delany good night, and having given me a bow, shut the door himself, to prevent Mrs. Delany, or even me, from attending him out, and, with only Miss Port to wait upon him, put on his own great coat in the passage, and walked away to