if she had
seen a ghost. But Mrs. Delany came forward to pay her duty to her royal
friend, and the disturbance was quieted. Frances was then presented, and
underwent a long examination and cross-examination about all that she
had written and all that she meant to write. The Queen soon made her
appearance, and his Majesty repeated, for the benefit of his consort,
the information which he had extracted from Miss Burney. The good nature
of the royal pair might have softened even the authors of the
Probationary Odes, and could not but be delightful to a young lady who
had been brought up a Tory. In a few days the visit was repeated. Miss
Burney was more at ease than before. His Majesty, instead of seeking for
information, condescended to impart it, and passed sentence on many
great writers, English and foreign. Voltaire he pronounced a monster.
Rousseau he liked rather better. "But was there ever," he cried, "such
stuff as great part of Shakespeare? Only one must not say so. But what
think you? What? Is there not sad stuff? What? What?"

The next day Frances enjoyed the privilege of listening to some equally
valuable criticism uttered by the Queen touching Goethe and Klopstock,
and might have learned an important lesson of economy from the mode in
which her Majesty's library had been formed. "I picked the book up on a
stall," said the Queen. "Oh, it is amazing what good books there are on
stalls!" Mrs. Delany, who seems to have understood from these words that
her Majesty was in the habit of exploring the booths of Moorfields and
Holywell Street in person, could not suppress an exclamation of
surprise. "Why," said the Queen, "I don't pick them up myself. But I
have a servant very clever; and, if they are not to be had at the
booksellers', they are not for me more than for another." Miss Burney
describes this conversation as delightful; and, indeed, we cannot wonder
that, with her literary tastes, she should be delighted at hearing in
how magnificent a manner the greatest lady in the land encouraged
literature.

The truth is, that Frances was fascinated by the condescending kindness
of the two great personages to whom she had been presented. Her father
was even more infatuated than herself. The result was a step of which we
cannot think with patience, but which, recorded as it is, with all its
consequences, in these volumes, deserves at least this praise, that it
has furnished a most impressive warning.

A German lady of