“You are, it seems, in England again, as I am to hear from every body but yourself; and I suppose you punctilious, because I did not answer your last Irish letter. When did you leave the ‘swate country?’ Never mind, I forgive you;—a strong proof of—I know not what—to give the lie to—
‘He never pardons who hath done the wrong.’ |
“You have written to * *. You have also written to Perry, who intimates hope of an Opera from you. Coleridge has promised a Tragedy. Now, if you keep Perry’s word, and Coleridge keeps his own, Drury-lane will be set up;—and, sooth to say, it is in grievous want of such a lift. We began at speed, and are blown already. When I say ‘we,’ I mean Kinnaird, who is the ‘all in all sufficient,’ and can count, which none of the rest of the Committee can.
“It is really very good fun, as far as the daily and nightly
stir of these strutters and fretters go; and, if the concern could be brought to
| 630 | NOTICES OF THE | A. D. 1815. |
“I say so much about the theatre, because there is nothing else alive in London at this season. All the world are out of it, except us, who remain to lie in,—in December, or perhaps earlier. Lady B. is very ponderous and prosperous, apparently, and I wish it well over.
“There is a play before me from a personage who signs himself ‘Hibernicus.’ The hero is Malachi, the Irishman and king; and the villain and usurper, Turgesius, the Dane. The conclusion is fine. Turgesius is chained by the leg (vide stage direction) to a pillar on the stage; and King Malachi makes him a speech, not unlike Lord Castlereagh’s about the balance of power and the lawfulness of legitimacy, which puts Turgesius into a frenzy—as Castlereagh’s would, if his audience was chained by the leg. He draws a dagger and rushes at the orator; but, finding himself at the end of his tether, he sticks it into his own carcass, and dies, saying, he has fulfilled a prophecy.
“Now, this is serious, downright matter of fact, and the gravest part of a tragedy which is not intended for burlesque. I tell it you for the honour of Ireland. The writer hopes it will be represented:—but what is Hope? nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of. I am not sure that I have not said this last superfine reflection before. But never mind;—it will do for the tragedy of Turgesius, to which I can append it.
“Well, but how dost thou do? thou bard, not of a thousand,
but three thousand! I wish your friend, Sir John
Piano-forte, had kept that to himself, and not made it public at the trial
of the song-seller in Dublin. I tell you why; it is a liberal thing for Longman to do, and honourable for you to obtain; but it
will set all the ‘hungry and dinnerless, lank-jawed judges’ upon the
fortunate author. But they be d—d!—the ‘Jeffrey and the Moore together
are confident against the world in ink!’ By the way, if poor C * * e—who is a man of wonderful talent,
| A. D. 1815. | LIFE OF LORD BYRON. | 631 |
“This must be a secret between you and me, as Jeffrey might not like such a project;—nor, indeed, might C. himself like it. But I do think he only wants a pioneer and a sparkle or two to explode most gloriously.
“P.S. This is a sad scribbler’s letter; but the next shall be ‘more of this world.’”
