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Elysium Row, Fulham, July 8, 1825.

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.