He told me that he had never been well for three hours in a day in his life, and that when he was thought only tired he was really so ill that he believed scarce another man would stay in company. I was quite shocked at this account, and told him, honestly, that I had done him so little justice as to attribute all his languors to affectation.
Proposed Match Between Mr. Seward and the Weeper-at-Will
When Mrs. Thrale joined us, Mr. Seward told us he had just seen Dr. Jebb.—Sir Richard, I mean,—and that he had advised him to marry.
“No,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “that will do nothing for you; but if you should marry, I have a wife for you.”
“Who?” cried he, “the S. S.?”
“The S. S.?—no!—she’s the last person for you,—her extreme softness, and tenderness, and weeping, would add languor to languor, and irritate all your disorders; ’twould be drink to a dropsical man.”
“No, no,—it would soothe me.”
“Not a whit! it would only fatigue you. The wife for you is Lady Anne Lindsay. She has birth, wit, and beauty, she has no fortune, and she’d readily accept you; and she is such a spirit that she’d animate you, I warrant you! O, she would trim you well! you’d be all alive presently. She’d take all the care of the money affairs,—and allow you out of them eighteen pence a week! That’s the wife for you!”
Mr. Seward was by no means “agreeable” to the proposal; he turned the conversation upon the S. S., and gave us an account of two visits he had made her, and spoke in favour of her manner of living, temper, and character. When he had run on in this strain for some time, Mrs. Thrale cried,
“Well, so you are grown very fond of her?”
“Oh dear, no!” answered he, drily, “not at all!”
“Why, I began to think,” said Mrs. Thrale, “you intended to supplant the parson.”
“No, I don’t: I don’t know what sort of an old woman she’d make; the tears won’t do then. Besides, I don’t think her so sensible as I used to do.”
“But she’s very pleasing,” cried I, “and very amiable.”
“Yes, she’s pleasing,—that’s certain; but I don’t think she reads much; the Greek has spoilt her.”
“Well, but you can read for yourself.”
“That’s true; but does she work well?”
“I believe she does, and that’s a better thing.”
“Ay; so it is,” said he, saucily, “for ladies; ladies should rather write than read.”
“But authors,” cried I, “before they write should read.”
Returning again to the S. S., and being again rallied about her by Mrs. Thrale, who said she believed at last he would end there,—he said,
“Why, if I must marry—if I was bid to choose between that and racking on the wheel, I believe I should go to her.”
We all laughed at this exquisite compliment; but, as he said, it was a compliment, for though it proved no passion for her, it proved a preference.
“However,” he continued, “it won’t do.”
“Upon my word,” exclaimed I, “you settle it all your own way!—the lady would be ready at any rate!”
“Oh yes! any man might marry Sophy Streatfield.”
I quite stopt to exclaim against him.
“I mean,” said he, “if he’d pay his court to her.”
The Fate of “The Witlings”
Fanny Burney to Mr. Crisp.
Friday, July 30.—This seems a strange, unseasonable period for my undertaking, but yet, my dear daddy, when you have read my conversation with Mr. Sheridan, I believe you will agree that I must have been wholly insensible, nay, almost ungrateful, to resist encouragement such as he gave me—nay, more than encouragement, entreaties, all of which he warmly repeated to my father.
Now, as to the play itself, I own I had wished to have been the bearer of it when I visit Chesington; but you seem so urgent, and my father himself is so desirous to carry it you, that I have given that plan up.
O my dear daddy, if your next letter were to contain your real opinion of it, how should I dread to open it! Be, however, as honest as your good nature and delicacy will allow you to be, and assure yourself I shall be very certain that all your criticisms will proceed from your earnest wishes to obviate those of others, and that you would have much more pleasure in being my panegyrist.
As to Mrs. Gast, I should be glad to know what I would refuse to a sister of yours. Make her, therefore, of your coterie, if she is with you while the piece is in your possession.
And now let me tell you what I wish in regard to this affair. I should like that your first reading should have nothing to do with me—that you should go quick through it, or let my father read it to you—forgetting all the time, as much as you can, that Fannikin is the writer, or even that it is a play in manuscript, and capable of alterations;—and then, when you have done, I should like to have three lines, telling me, as nearly as you can trust my candour, its general effect. After that take it to your own desk, and lash it at your leisure.
Fanny Burney to Dr. Burney.
The fatal knell, then, is knolled, and down among the dead men sink the poor “Witlings”—for ever, and for ever, and for ever!
I give a sigh, whether I will or not, to their memory! for, however worthless, they were mes enfans. You, my dear sir, who enjoyed, I really think, even more than myself, the astonishing success of my first attempt, would, I believe, even more than myself, be hurt at the failure of my second; and I am sure I speak from the bottom of a very honest heart, when I most solemnly declare, that upon your account any disgrace would mortify and afflict me more than upon my own; for whatever appears with your knowledge, will be naturally supposed to have met with your approbation, and, perhaps, your assistance; therefore, though all particular censure would fall where it ought—upon me—yet any general censure of the whole, and the plan, would cruelly, but certainly involve you in its severity.
You bid me open my heart to you,—and so, my dearest sir, I will, for it is the greatest happiness of my life that I dare be sincere to you. I expected many objections to be raised—a thousand errors to be pointed out—and a million of alterations to be proposed; but the suppression of the piece were words I did not expect; indeed, after the warm approbation of Mrs. Thrale, and the repeated commendations and flattery of Mr. Murphy, how could I?
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
