An admirer of her father was a man whom Fanny could trust at once, and she soon had confidences with Murphy, as well as with Johnson, on the subject of her projected play. In May, the first draft was submitted to the former, who bestowed on it abundance of flattery. Mrs. Thrale also was warm in its praise. But the piece, when finished, had to be submitted to critics who felt a deeper interest, and a stronger sense of responsibility. The manuscript was carried by Dr. Burney to Crisp at Chesington, and the two old friends sat in council on it. “I should like,” wrote Fanny to Crisp, “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. Adieu, my dear daddy! I shall hope to hear from you very soon, and pray believe me yours ever and ever.” The comedy was intended to be called ‘The Witlings,’ and seems to have borne a strong resemblance to the _Femmes Savantes_. We have not the letter containing Crisp’s judgment, but he told his disciple plainly that her production would be condemned as a pale copy of Molière’s piece. We gather also from subsequent correspondence that both he and Dr. Burney felt ‘The Witlings,’ to be a failure, even when considered on its own merits. It was some consolation to Fanny that she had never read Molière, but she sought no saving for her self-love. Here is her answer to her daddy: “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 now 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 mieux_ 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.