A very lively dialogue ensued. But I grow tired of writing. One thing, however, I must mention, which, at the time, frightened me wofully.
"Pray, Sir Joshua," asked Lord Palmerston, "what is this Warley that is just come out?"
[Was not this a cruel question? I felt in such a twitter!]
"Why, I don't know," answered he; "but the reviewers, my Lord, speak very well of it."
Mrs. Chol. — Who wrote it?
Sir Joshua. — Mr. Huddesford.
Mrs. Chol. — Oh! I don't like it at all, then! Huddesford! What a name! [Miss Burney, pray can you conceive anything of such a name as Huddesford? I could not speak a word, and I daresay I looked no-how. But was it not an unlucky reference to me?]
Sir Joshua attempted a kind of vindication of him: but Lord Palmerston said, dryly,
"I think, Sir Joshua, it is dedicated to you?"
"Yes, my Lord," answered he.
"Oh, your servant! Is it so?" cried Mrs. Cholmondeley; "then you need say no more!"
Sir Joshua laughed, and the subject, to my great relief, was dropped.
* This was a satire entitled Warley, by the Rev. George Huddesford, 1749-1809, in which, to the sensitive Fanny's "infinite frettation," she had been spoken of as "dear little Burney." "Will it gain approbation from 'dear little Burney'" — the writer had said.