I believe in my last I told you pretty nearly all I knew, or indeed
     any of us knew, of our affairs; the matter is now much clearer, and
     not a whit pleasanter.

It seems that my father, as proprietor of Covent Garden Theater, in consequence of this lawsuit and the debts which encumber the concern, is liable at any time to be called upon for twenty-seven thousand pounds; which, for a man who can not raise five thousand, is not a pleasant predicament.  On the other hand, Mr. Harris, our adversary, and joint proprietor with my father, is also liable to enormous demands, if the debts should be insisted upon at present.

The creditors have declared that they are entirely satisfied that my father, and Messrs. Forbes and Willett, the other partners, have done every thing with respect to them which honorable men could do, and offer to wait till some compromise can be made with Mr. Harris, who, it is thought, will be willing to enter into any arrangement rather than be irretrievably ruined, as we all must be unless some agreement takes place between the proprietors.  In the meantime, the lawyers have advised our party to appeal from the decision of the Vice-Chancellor.  Amid all this perplexity and trouble, we have had the satisfaction of hearing that John and Henry are both doing well; we received a letter from the latter a short time ago, full of affection and kindness to us all.  I wish you could have seen my father’s countenance as he read it, and with what fondness and almost gratitude he kissed dear Henry’s name, while the tears were standing in his eyes.  I can not help thinking sometimes that my father deserved a less hard and toilsome existence.

He has resolved that, come what may, he will keep those boys at their respective schools, if he can by any means compass it; and if (which I fear is the case) he finds Bury St. Edmunds too expensive, we shall remove to Westminster, in order that Henry’s education may not suffer from our circumstances.  Last Thursday was my father’s benefit, and a very indifferent one, which I think is rather hard, considering that he really slaves night and day, and every night and every day, in that theater.  Cecilia Siddons and I have opened a poetical correspondence; she writes very prettily indeed.  Perhaps, had she not had such a bad subject as myself to treat of, I might have said more of her verses.  You will be sorry to hear that not only my poor mother’s health, but what is almost as precious, her good spirits, have been dreadfully affected by all her anxiety; indeed, her nerves have been so utterly deranged that she has been alternately deaf and blind, and sometimes both, for the last fortnight.  Thank Heaven she is now recovering!

                                    CRAVEN HILL, BAYSWATER, May, 1827. 
     MY DEAREST H——­: