already. When I say 'we,' I mean Kinnaird, who is the 'all in all
sufficient,' and can count, which none of the rest of the Committee
can.

"It is really very good fun, as far as the daily and nightly stir
of these strutters and fretters go; and, if the concern could be
brought to pay a shilling in the pound, would do much credit to the
management. Mr. ---- has an accepted tragedy * * * * *, whose first
scene is in his sleep (I don't mean the author's). It was forwarded
to us as a prodigious favourite of Kean's; but the said Kean, upon
interrogation, denies his eulogy, and protests against his part.
How it will end, I know not.

"I say so much about the theatre, because there is nothing else
alive in London at this season. All the world are out of it, except
us, who remain to lie in,--in December, or perhaps earlier. Lady B.
is very ponderous and prosperous, apparently, and I wish it well
over.

"There is a play before me from a personage who signs himself
'Hibernicus.' The hero is Malachi, the Irishman and king; and the
villain and usurper, Turgesius, the Dane. The conclusion is fine.
Turgesius is chained by the leg (_vide_ stage direction) to a
pillar on the stage; and King Malachi makes him a speech, not
unlike Lord Castlereagh's about the balance of power and the
lawfulness of legitimacy, which puts Turgesius into a frenzy--as
Castlereagh's would, if his audience was chained by the leg. He
draws a dagger and rushes at the orator; but, finding himself at
the end of his tether, he sticks it into his own carcass, and dies,
saying, he has fulfilled a prophecy.

"Now, this is _serious downright matter of fact_, and the gravest
part of a tragedy which is not intended for burlesque. I tell it
you for the honour of Ireland. The writer hopes it will be
represented:--but what is Hope? nothing but the paint on the face
of Existence; the least touch of Truth rubs it off, and then we see
what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of. I am not sure
that I have not said this last superfine reflection before. But
never mind;--it will do for the tragedy of Turgesius, to which I
can append it.

"Well, but how dost thou do? thou bard not of a thousand but three
thousand! I wish your friend, Sir John Piano-forte, had kept that
to himself,