My Booksellers inform’d me, lately, that several inquiries had been made for My Night-Gown and Slippers,—but that every copy had been sold;—they had been out of print these two years.—“Then publish them again,” said I, boldly,—(I print at my own risk)—and with an air of triumph. Messrs. Cadell and Davies advise’d me to make additions.—“The Work is, really, too short,” said Messrs. Cadell and Davies,—“I wish, gentlemen,” return’d I, “my readers were of your opinion.”—“I protest, Sir,” said they, (and they asserted it, both together, with great emphasis,) “you have but Three Tales.”—I told them, carelessly, it was enough for the greatest Bashaw, among modern poets, and wish’d them a good morning. When a man, as Sterne observes, “can extricate himself with an equivoque, in such an unequal match,”—(and two booksellers to one poet are tremendous odds)—“he is not ill off;”—but reflecting a little, as I went home, I began to think my pun was a vile one,—and did not assist me, one jot, in my argument;—and, now I have put it upon paper, it appears viler still;—it is execrable.—So, without much further reasoning, I sat down to rhyming;—rhyming, as the reader will see, in open defiance of all reason,—except the reasons of Messrs. Cadell and Davies.—Thus you have My Night-Gown and Slippers, with Additions, converted to Broad Grins;—and ’tis well if they may not end in Wide Yawns at last! Should this be the case, gentle Reviewers, do not, ungratefully, attempt to break my sleep, (you will find it labour lost) because I have contributed to your’s.

GEORGE COLMAN, the Younger.
May, 1820.