With all the Queen’s respect for the formality of court, she enjoyed herself most when she was least observant of it. Reading the letters of Johnson and Mrs. Thrale, she liked to talk them over with Miss Burney, who could explain so many circumstances connected with them which would, otherwise, have been incomprehensible to the Queen. She loved to hear her dresser’s graphic account of Warren Hastings’ trial, whither she had sent her with a reticule stuffed full of cakes from the Queen’s own table. At Cheltenham, when she accompanied the King thither previous to his late illness, the royal residence was of such contracted dimensions, and so scant of accommodation, that her Majesty dressed and undressed in the drawing-room. Many of her ladies would not have submitted half so cheerfully as _she_ did to such an arrangement. In the rural expeditions of the royal pair, there was indeed a comic sort of mixture of formality and fun. At Weymouth, for instance, when the King went to take his ‘dip,’ the royal machine was followed by another full of fiddlers and other musical persons, who, as the monarch plunged into the ocean, saluted him and the bold deed with ‘God save the King,’ horribly out of tune! It was when the royal pair were at Weymouth that, on one occasion, the mayor of the borough, after presenting an address, and receiving the stereotyped answer, boldly walked up to the Queen to kiss her hand. ‘You must kneel,’ whispered the master of the ceremonies. Mr. Mayor, not heeding the court guide, continued standing, and in that position kissed the royal hand. As he retired, the highly offended master of the ceremonies remarked, angrily, ‘Sir, you ought to have knelt.’ ‘Sir,’ said the Mayor, ‘I can’t; don’t you see I have got a wooden leg?’ It is upon record that the Queen _once_ attempted to write some verses; and having got to the third line gave the matter up in despair-- leaving her ‘reader’ to finish and perfect the rhymes. The occasion was on presenting a pair of old-fashioned gloves to Lord Harcourt, who had an affection for ancient gear, and cared more for old gloves than new verses. Miss Burney acquitted herself, however, very well with her _impromptu_; indeed, she may be said to have been the Queen’s laureate during the five years she served that Sovereign. Her royal mistress employed her to compose some congratulatory verses on the King’s recovery from his serious indisposition; and of these it may be said that if Warton, over whom paralysis was then pending, might have written better, Henry James Pye, the succeeding laureate, could hardly have written worse.