not bear the subject, I will say no more of it, but that Mr. Chute, who
is not easily pleased, likes it, and Gray, who is still more difficult,
approves it. I am not yet intoxicated enough with it to think it would
do for the stage, though I wish to see it acted; but, as Mrs.
Pritchard[1] leaves the stage next month, I know nobody could play the
Countess; nor am I disposed to expose myself to the impertinences of
that jackanapes Garrick, who lets nothing appear but his own wretched
stuff, or that of creatures still duller, who suffer him to alter their
pieces as he pleases. I have written an epilogue in character for the
Clive, which she would speak admirably: but I am not so sure that she
would like to speak it. Mr. Conway, Lady Aylesbury, Lady Lyttelton, and
Miss Rich, are to come hither the day after to-morrow, and Mr. Conway
and I are to read my play to them; for I have not strength enough to go
through the whole alone.

[Footnote 1: Mrs. Pritchard was the most popular tragic actress of the
day. Churchill gives her high praise--

In spite of outward blemishes, she shone
For humour fam'd, and humour all her own.

("Rosciad," 840.)]

My press is revived, and is printing a French play written by the old
President Hénault.[1] It was damned many years ago at Paris, and yet I
think is better than some that have succeeded, and much better than any
of our modern tragedies. I print it to please the old man, as he was
exceedingly kind to me at Paris; but I doubt whether he will live till
it is finished. He is to have a hundred copies, and there are to be but
a hundred more, of which you shall have one.