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,