DEAR Doctor, I have read your play, Which is a good one in its way, -- Purges the eyes and moves the bowels, And drenches handkerchiefs like towels With tears, that, in a flux of grief, Afford hysterical relief To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses, Which your catastrophe convulses. I like your moral and machinery; Your plot, too, has such scope for Scenery; Your dialogue is apt and smart; The play's concoction full of art; Your hero raves, your heroine cries, All stab, and everybody dies. In short, your tragedy would be The very thing to hear and see; And for a piece of publication, If I decline on this occasion, It is not that I am not sensible To merits in themselves ostensible, But -- and I grieve to speak it -- plays Are drugs -- mere drugs, Sir -- now-a-days. I had a heavy loss by Manuel, -- Too lucky if it prove not annual, -- And Sotheby, with his damn'd Orestes (Which, by the way, the old Bore's best is), Has lain so very long on hand That I despair of all demand. I've advertised, but see my books, Or only watch my Shopman's looks; -- Still Ivan, Ina, and such lumber, My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber. There's Byron, too, who once did better, Has sent me, folded in a letter, A sort of -- it's no more a drama Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama; So alter'd since last year his pen is, I think he's lost his wits at Venice, In short, sir, what with one and t'other, I dare not venture on another. I write in haste; excuse each blunder; The Coaches through the street so thunder! My Room's so full; we've Gifford here Reading MSS., with Hookham Frere, Pronouncing on the nouns and particles Of some of our forthcoming Articles. The Quarterly -- Ah, Sir, if you Had but the Genius to review! -- A smart Critique upon St. Helena, Or if you only would but tell in a Short compass what -- but, to resume: As I was saying, Sir, the Room -- The Room's so full of wits and bards, Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, and Wards And others, neither bards nor wits: -- My humble tenement admits All persons in the dress of gent., From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent. A party dines with me to-day, All clever men, who make their way; Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey, Are all partakers of my pantry. They're at this moment in discussion On poor De Stael's late dissolution. Her book, they say, was in advance -- Pray Heaven! she tell the truth of France! 'T is said she certainly was married To Rocca, and had twice miscarried, No -- not miscarried, I opine, -- But brought to bed at forty-nine. Some say she died a Papist; Some Are of opinion that's a Hum; I don't know that -- the fellow, Schlegel, Was very likely to inveigle A dying person in compunction To try the extremity of Unction. But peace be with her! for a woman Her talents surely were uncommon. Her Publisher (and Public too) The hour of her demise may rue -- For never more within his shop he -- Pray -- was not she interr'd at Coppet? Thus run our time and tongues away. -- But, to return, Sir, to your play: Sorry, Sir, but I cannot deal, Unless 't were acted by O'Neill. My hands are full, my head so busy, I'm almost dead, and always dizzy; And so, with endless truth and hurry, Dear Doctor, I am yours, JOHN MURRAY. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JASPER by DONALD (GRADY) DAVIDSON A BARD'S EPITAPH by ROBERT BURNS DREAMS (2) by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR TO A CHILD DURING SICKNESS by JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT ODE ON MELANCHOLY by JOHN KEATS SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 11. THE GREEK POET IN ENGLAND by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |