Mr. Bentley’s relation to Lord Rochester by the St. Johns is not new to me, and you had more reason to doubt of their affinity by the former marrying his mistress, than to ascribe their consanguinity to it.  I shall be glad to see the epistle:  are not “The Wishes” to be acted? remember me, if they are printed; and I shall thank you for this new list of prints.

I have mentioned names enough in this letter to lead me naturally to new ill usage I have received.  Just when I thought my book finished, my printer ran away, and had left eighteen sheets in the middle of the book untouched, having amused me with sending proofs.  He had got into debt, and two girls with child; being two, he could not marry two Hannahs.  You see my luck; I had been kind to this fellow; in short, if the faults of my life had been punished as severely as my merits have been, I should be the most unhappy of beings; but let us talk of something else.

I have picked up at Mrs. Dunch’s auction the sweetest Petitot in the world-the very picture of James the Second, that he gave Mrs. Godfrey,(208) and I paid but six guineas and a half for it.  I will not tell you how vast a commission I had given; but I will own, that about the hour of sale, I drove about the door to find what likely bidders there were.  The first coach I saw was the Chudleighs; could I help concluding, that a maid of honour, kept by a duke, would purchase the portrait of a duke kept by a maid of honour-but I was mistaken.  The Oxendens reserved the best pictures; the fine china, and even the diamonds, sold for nothing; for nobody has a shilling.  We shall be beggars if we don’t conquer Peru within this half year.

If you are acquainted with my lady Barrymore, pray tell her that in less than two hours t’other night the Duke of Cumberland lost four hundred and fifty pounds at loo; Miss Pelham won three hundred, and I the rest.  However, in general, loo is extremely gone to decay; I am to play at Princess Emily’s to-morrow for the first time this winter, and it is with difficulty she has made a party.

My Lady Pomfret is dead on the road to Bath; and unless the deluge stops, and the fogs disperse, I think we shall all die.  A few days ago, on the cannon firing for the King going to the House, some body asked what it was?  M. de Choiseul replied, “Apparemment, c’est qu’on voit le soleil.”

Shall I fill up the rest of my paper with some extempore lines that I wrote t’other night on Lady Mary Coke having St. Anthony’s fire in her cheek!  You will find nothing in them to contradict what I have said in the former part of my letter; they rather confirm it.