The indefatigable diarist, says Thackeray, continues for pages reporting H.R.H.’s conversation, and indicating, with a humour not unworthy of the clever little author of ‘Evelina,’ the increasing excitement of the young Sailor Prince, who drank more and more champagne, stopped old Mrs. Schwellenberg’s remonstrances by kissing her hand, and telling her to shut her potato-trap, and who did not keep ‘sober for Mary.’ Mary had to find another partner that night, for the royal William Henry could not keep his legs. When the Princess afterwards told Miss Burney of her brother’s condition at the ball, and Fanny accounted for it by relating what had passed at the attendants’ dinner-table, she found that she had been anticipated by the Duke himself. ‘Oh!’ cried the Princess; ‘he told me of it himself the next morning, and said: “You may think how far I was gone, for I kissed the Schwellenberg’s hand!”’ The lady saluted was duly sensible of the honour paid her. ‘Dat Prince Villiam,’ she observed to her junior—‘oders de Duke of Clarence—bin raelly ver merry—oders vat you call tipsy.’ Mademoiselle Jacobi,[106] Fanny’s destined successor, arrived in the first days of July, and the prison door was now thrown open. Miss Burney imagined that, as the day of her discharge approached, the Queen’s manner to her became rather less cordial, and betokened an inward feeling that the invalided servant ought, at every hazard, to have remained with her employer. This, we believe, is a common opinion among mistresses in all ranks of life, when called upon to surrender a trusted dependent. The King, with that weakness which the better-half always despises, was disposed to be much more indulgent. As if to compensate for his consort’s vexation, he showed himself increasingly courteous and kind at every meeting, making opportunities to talk over Boswell’s book, which had recently appeared, and listening to Fanny’s anecdotes of Johnson with the utmost complacency and interest. The Princesses did not conceal their sorrow at the impending change. ‘Indeed,’ says the Diary, ‘the most flattering marks of attention meet me from all quarters. Mrs. Schwellenberg has been forced to town by ill-health; she was very friendly, even affectionate, in going!’ And before the hour of parting arrived, the light cloud passed away from her Majesty’s face. It has been asked, Why should she have grieved at losing an attendant, who, as the Queen used to complain, could never tie the bow of her royal necklace without tying her royal hair in with it? But, in Miss Burney, Queen Charlotte was losing much more than an unskilful tire-woman, or a nervous reader, who, as we know on the same unimpeachable authority, ‘had the misfortune of reading rather low.’ She was losing one whom she declared to be ‘true as gold,’ and who had a much larger share of mind than commonly fell to the official lot; a familiar friend who was as far as possible from being a learned lady, and yet capable of entertaining