The young actress had steadily declined many invitations, feeling that the moments snatched from her profession ought to be devoted to the care of her children. Miss Monkton, however, insisted on her coming one Sunday evening, assuring her that there would only be some half-a-dozen friends to meet her. “The appointed Sunday evening came. I went to her very nearly in undress, at the early hour of eight, on account of my little boy, whom she desired me to bring with me, more for effect, I suspect, than for his _beaux yeux_. I found with her, as I had been taught to expect, three or four ladies of my acquaintance; and the time passed in agreeable conversation, till I had remained much longer than I had apprehended. “I was, of course, preparing speedily to return home, when incessantly repeated thunderings at the door, and the sudden influx of such a throng of people as I had never before seen collected in any private house, counteracted every attempt that I could make for escape. I was therefore obliged, in a state of indescribable mortification, to sit quietly down till I know not what hour in the morning; but for hours before my departure the room I sat in was so painfully crowded that the people absolutely stood on the chairs, round the walls, that they might look over their neighbours’ heads to stare at me; and if it had not been for the benevolent politeness of Mr. Erskine, who had been acquainted with my arrangement, I know not what weakness I might have been surprised into, especially being tormented, as I was, by the ridiculous interrogations of some learned ladies who were called ‘Blues,’ the meaning of which title I did not at that time appreciate; much less did I comprehend the meaning of the greater part of their learned talk. These profound ladies, however, furnished much amusement to the town for many weeks after—nay, I believe I might say for the whole winter. Glad enough was I at length to find myself at peace in my own bed-chamber.” Dr. Doran makes this scene take place at Mrs. Montagu’s; but besides the victim’s own account of this remarkable evening, that gives such a picture of the times, we have those of Cumberland and of Miss Burney. Cumberland, in the _Observer_, disguising the people under feigned names, tells us:— I now joined a cluster of people who had crowded round an actress who sat upon a sofa leaning on her elbow in a pensive attitude, and seemed to be counting the sticks of her fan, whilst they were vieing with each other in the most extravagant encomiums. “You were adorable last night in Belvidera,” says a pert young parson with a high toupée. “I sat in Lady Blubber’s box, and I can assure you she, and her daughters, too, wept most bitterly. But then that charming mad scene—but, by my soul, it was a _chef d’œuvre_! Pray, Madam, give me leave to ask you, was you really in your senses?” “I strove to do it as well as I could,” answered the actress.