By the papers I see Mrs. Trevor Hampden is dead of the smallpox.  Will he be much concerned?  If you will stay with me a fortnight or three weeks, perhaps I may be able to carry you to a play of Mr. Bentley’s—­you stare, but I am in earnest:  nay, and de par le roy.  In short, here is the history of it.  You know the passion he always had for the Italian comedy; about two years ago he wrote one, intending to get it offered to Rich, but without his name.  He would have died to be supposed an author, and writing for gain.  I kept this an inviolable secret.  Judge then of my surprise, when about a fortnight or three weeks ago, I found my Lord Melcomb reading this very Bentleiad in a circle at my Lady Hervey’s.  Cumberland had carried it to him with a recommendatory copy of verses, containing more incense to the King and my Lord Bute, than the magi brought in their portmanteaus to Jerusalem.  The idols were propitious, and to do them justice, there is a great deal of wit in the piece, which is called “The Wishes, or Harlequin’s Mouth Opened."(163) A bank note of two hundred pounds was sent from the treasury to the author, and the play ordered to be performed by the summer company.  Foote was summoned to Lord Melcomb’s, where Parnassus was composed of the peer himself, who, like Apollo, as I am going to tell you, was dozing, the two chief justices, and Lord B. Bubo read the play himself, “with handkerchief and orange by his side.”  But the curious part is a prologue, which I never saw.  It represents the god of verse fast asleep by the side of Helicon:  the race of modern bards try to wake him, but the more they repeat their works, the louder he snores.  At last “Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!” is heard, and the god starts from his trance.  This is a good thought, but will offend the bards so much, that I think Dr. Bentley’s son will be abused at least @as much as his father was.  The prologue concludes with young Augustus, and how much he excels the ancient one by the choice of his friend.  Foote refused to act this prologue, and said it was too strong.  “Indeed,” said Augustus’s friend, “I think it is.”  They have softened it a little, and I suppose it will be performed.  You may depend upon the truth of all this; but what is much more credible is, that the comely young author appears every night in the Mall in a milk-white coat with a blue cape, disclaims any benefit, and says he has done with the play now it is out of his own hands, and that Mrs. Hannah Clio, alias Bentley, writ the best scenes in it.  He is going to write a tragedy, and she, I suppose, is going—­to court.

You will smile when I tell you that t’other day a party went to Westminster Abbey, and among the rest saw the ragged regiment.  They inquired the names of the figures.  “I don’t know them,” said the man, “but if Mr. Walpole was here he could tell you every one.”  Adieu!  I expect Mr. John and you with impatience.