I do not, therefore, pretend to wish you should think a

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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.

(Fanny Burney to Mr. Crisp.)

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)

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“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?”