I do not, therefore, pretend to wish you should think
a
decision, for which I was so little prepared, has
given me no disturbance ; for I must be a far more
egregious witling than any of those I tried to draw,
to imagine you could ever credit that I wrote without
some remote hope of success now—though I
literally did when I composed “Evelina”!
But ny mortification is not at throwing away the characters,
or the contrivance;—it is all at throwing
away the time,—which I with difficulty
stole, and which I have buried in the mere trouble
of writing.
Well! there are plays that are to be saved, and plays
that are not to be saved! so good night, Mr. Dabbler!—good
night, Lady Smatter,—Mrs. Sapient,—Mrs.
Voluble,—Mrs. Wheedle,—Censor,—
Cecilia,—Beaufort,—and you, you
great oaf, Bobby!—good night! good night!
And good morning, Miss Fanny Burney!—I
hope you have opened your eyes for some time, and
will not close them in so drowsy a fit again—at
least till the full of the moon.
I won’t tell you, I have been absolutely ravie
with delight at the fall of the curtain; but I intend
to take the affair in the tant miemx manner, and to
console myself for your censure by this greatest proof
I have ever received of the sincerity, candour, and,
let me add, esteem, of my dear daddy. And as
I happen to love myself rather more than my play,
this consolation is not a very trifling one.
As to all you say of my reputation and so forth, I
perceive the kindness of your endeavours to put me
in humour with myself, and prevent my taking huff,
which, if I did, I should deserve to receive, upon
any future trial, hollow praise from you,—and
the rest from the public.
The only bad thing in this affair is, that I cannot
take the comfort of my poor friend Dabbler, by calling
you a crabbed fellow, because you write with almost
more kindness than ever neither can I (though I try
hard) persuade myself that you have not a grain of
taste in your whole composition. This, however,
seriously I do believe, that when my two daddies put
their heads together to concert for me that hissing,
groaning, catcalling epistle they sent me, they felt
as sorry for poor little Miss Bayes as she could possibly
do for herself.(100)
“Quite what we call,”
And “Give me leave To tell
you.”
We had Lady Ladd at Streatham; Mr. Stephen Fuller,
the sensible, but deaf old gentleman I have formerly
mentioned, dined here also; as did Mr. R—,(101)
whose trite, settled, tonish emptiness of discourse
is a never-failing source of laughter and diversion.
“Well, I say, what, Miss Burney, so you had
a very good party last Tuesday?—what we
call the family party—in that Sort of way?
Pray who had you?”
