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.