My dear B.,—I am in a dreadful state—I see by the play ills, that a Play about our family at Rhymes is in preparation at Common Garden. When I saw the divertisement in the Currier, I thought I should have perspired. I never was at Rhymes. I saw my own King, God bless him, crowned—but I neither saw Lues de Sweet nor Charles Deece done anything to, nor never meant to go. What is the Santampoole to me—I don't like Poopery, nor ever did. Pray do you know Mr. Coleman (him as I spoke of before) the itinerary surgeon at Pancras? I am told he cuts out what he likes, of whatever appears at Common Garden, ever since the horses was introduced—if you could contrive to get us emitted, I should be much obligated. Lavy is in a perfect favour about it; and if dear Mr. Ram was not diseased and in his grave, I think he would have gone mad to see our names blackguarded against the walls—besides, there's our cousins—them is more angry than we. In short, I have no doubt but the Play has been caused by some little peake against our family, and I trust to your goodness to get it anniliated beforehand.—Your's, ever, dear B.,
Dorothea Julia Ramsbottom.
P.S. If any of your friends wants a house in a rural situation, our house in Montague-place is still to let.
XI.
MRS. RAMSBOTTOM WRITES FROM DIEPPE.
Dippe, January 1, 1826.
Dear Mr. B.,—You have not heard from any on us for a long time—indeed I have no spirts to write to any body, for Lavy has been very mal indeed—we are stopping at Dippe, so called as you know, from being a bathing-place, for I am worried to death.
Our house in Montague-place, which since dear Mr. Ram's disease I cannot think of stopping in, is still to let, which is so much waste of money—it is a nice house, open behind to the Mewseum Jordans, and in front all the way to Highgate; but I cannot get it off my hands. As for Mr. Ram's little property in Gloucestershire, I never can go there, for my lawyer tells me, although we might live there if we like, that one of Mr. Ram's creditors has got a lion on the estate, and I cannot think of going to expose myself to the mercy of a wild cretur like that a running about—however, as the French says, "jamais esprit,"—never mind—I cannot help it.
My son Tom, who is a groin up, is to be in the law himself, indeed I have put him out to Grazing,[13] under a specious pleader—I should like him to be apprenticed to the Lord Chancellor at once, and brought up to the business regular, but I don't know how to get it managed—do you think Mr. Harmer could put me in the way of it?
I only write to wish you the full complement of the season—we are a good deal troubled with wind here, but otherwise we are very snug, and there are several high-burning gentlemen of very large property living in Dippe, who are kind enough to dine with us almost every day. I like them—they have no pride at all about them, and, to look at them, you would not think they was worth a Lewy.