Dear Doctor, I have Read your Play
Dear
Doctor,
I
have
read
your
play,
Which
is
a
good
one
in
its
way,
Purges
the
eyes,
and
moves
the
bowels,
And
drenches
handkerchief
s
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,
nowadays.
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
advertis'd—
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,
Or
drain'd
his
brains
away
as
stallion
To
some
dark-eyed
and
warm
Italian;
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
today,
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
Sta{:e}l's
late
dissolution.
Her
book,
they
say,
was
in
advance—
Pray
Heaven
she
tell
the
truth
of
France!
'Tis
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
she
not
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
'twere
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
