Epistle From Mr. Murray to Dr. Polidori

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 shattered nerves and quickened 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 every body 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 _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 altered 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 MS., 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 Staël'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 fellows Schlegel,

Are very likely to inveigle

A dying person in compunction

To try th' 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 interred 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.