ed. The key was turned. She, looking
back with tender regret on all that she had left, and forward with
anxiety and terror to the new life on which she was entering, was unable
to speak or stand; and he went on his way homeward rejoicing in her
marvellous prosperity.

And now began a slavery of five years, of five years taken from the best
part of life, and wasted in menial drudgery or in recreations duller
than even menial drudgery, under galling restraints and amidst
unfriendly or uninteresting companions. The history of an ordinary day
was this. Miss Burney had to rise and dress herself early, that she
might be ready to answer the royal bell, which rang at half after seven.
Till about eight she attended in the Queen's dressing-room, and had the
honor of lacing her august mistress's stays, and of putting on the hoop,
gown, and neck-handkerchief. The morning was chiefly spent in rummaging
drawers and laying fine clothes in their proper places. Then the Queen
was to be powdered and dressed for the day. Twice a week her Majesty's
hair was curled and craped; and this operation appears to have added a
full hour to the business of the toilette. It was generally three before
Miss Burney was at liberty. Then she had two hours at her own disposal.
To these hours we owe great part of her Diary. At five she had to attend
her colleague, Madame Schwellenberg, a hateful old toadeater, as
illiterate as a chambermaid, as proud as a whole German Chapter, rude,
peevish, unable to bear solitude, unable to conduct herself with common
decency in society. With this delightful associate, Frances Burney had
to dine, and pass the evening. The pair generally remained together from
five to eleven, and often had no other company the whole time, except
during the hour from eight to nine, when the equerries came to tea. If
poor Frances attempted to escape to her own apartment, and to forget her
wretchedness over a book, the execrable old woman railed and stormed,
and complained that she was neglected. Yet, when Frances stayed, she was
constantly assailed with insolent reproaches. Literary fame was, in the
eyes of the German crone, a blemish, a proof that the person who enjoyed
it was meanly born, and out of the pale of good society. All her scanty
stock of broken English was employed to express the contempt with which
she regarded the author of Evelina and Cecilia. Frances detested cards,
and indeed knew nothing about them; but she soon found that