by Thomas Moore
“I hear that you have been gloriously received by the Irish, — and so you ought. But don’t let them kill you with claret and kindness at the national dinner in your honour, which, I hear and hope, is in contemplation. If you will tell me the day, I’ll get drunk myself on this side of the water, and waft you an applauding hiccup over the Channel.
“Of politics, we have nothing but the yell for war; and C * * h is preparing his head for the pike, on which we shall see it carried before he has done. The loan has made every body sulky. I hear often from Paris, but in direct contradiction to the home statements of our hirelings. Of domestic doings, there has been nothing since Lady D * *. Not a divorce stirring, — but a good many in embryo, in the shape of marriages.
“I enclose you an epistle received this morning from I know not whom; but I think it will amuse you. The writer must be a rare fellow.
“P.S. A gentleman named D’Alton (not your Dalton) has sent me a National Poem called ‘Dermid.’ The same cause which prevented my writing to you operated against my wish to write to him an epistle of thanks. If you see him, will you make all kinds of fine speeches for me, and tell him that I am the laziest and most ungrateful of mortals?
“A word more; — don’t let Sir John Stevenson (as an evidence on trials for copy-right, &c.) talk about the price of your next poem, or they will come upon you for the property tax for it. I am serious, and have just heard a long story of the rascally tax-men making Scott pay for his. So, take care. Three hundred is a devil of a deduction out of three thousand.”
LETTER 223. TO MR. MOORE.
“July 7. 1815.
“‘Grata superveniet,’ &c. &c. I had written to you again, but burnt the letter, because I began to think you seriously hurt at my indolence, and did not know how the buffoonery it contained might be taken. In the mean time, I have yours, and all is well.
“I had given over all hopes of yours. By-the-by, my ‘grata superveniet’ should be in the present tense; for I perceive it looks now as if it applied to this present scrawl reaching you, whereas it is to the receipt of thy Kilkenny epistle that I have tacked that venerable sentiment.
“Poor Whitbread died yesterday morning, — a sudden and severe loss. His health had been wavering, but so fatal an attack was not apprehended. He dropped down, and I believe never spoke afterwards. I perceive Perry attributes his death to Drury Lane, — a consolatory encouragement to the new Committee. I have no doubt that * *, who is of a plethoric habit, will be bled immediately; and as I have, since my marriage, lost much of my paleness, and— ‘horresco referens’ (for I hate even moderate fat) — that happy slenderness, to which, when I first knew you, I had attained, I by no means sit easy under this dispensation of the Morning Chronicle. Every one must regret the loss of Whitbread; he was surely a great and very good man.
“Paris is taken for the second time. I presume it, for the future, will have an anniversary capture. In the late battles, like all the world, I have lost a connection, — poor Frederick Howard, the best of his race. I had little intercourse, of late years, with his family, but I never saw or heard but good of him. Hobhouse’s brother is killed. In short, the havoc has not left a family out of its tender mercies.
“Every hope of a republic is over, and we must go on under the old system. But I am sick at heart of politics and slaughters; and the luck which Providence is pleased to lavish on Lord Castlereagh is only a proof of the little value the gods set upon prosperity, when they permit such * * * s as he and that drunken corporal, old Blucher, to bully their betters. From this, however, Wellington should be excepted. He is a man, — and the Scipio of our Hannibal. However, he may thank the Russian frosts, which destroyed the real élite of the French army, for the successes of Waterloo.
“La! Moore — how you blasphemes about ‘Parnassus’ and ‘Moses!’ I am ashamed for you. Won’t you do any thing for the drama? We beseech an Opera. Kinnaird’s blunder was partly mine. I wanted you of all things in the Committee, and so did he. But we are now glad you were wiser; for it is, I doubt, a bitter business.
“When shall we see you in England? Sir Ralph Noel (late Milbanke — he don’t promise to be late Noel in a hurry), finding that one man can’t inhabit two houses, has given his place in the north to me for a habitation; and there Lady B. threatens to be brought to bed in November. Sir R. and my Lady Mother are to quarter at Kirby — Lord Wentworth’s that was. Perhaps you and Mrs. Moore will pay us a visit at Seaham in the course of the autumn. If so, you and I (without our wives) will take a lark to Edinburgh and embrace Jeffrey. It is not much above one hundred miles from us. But all this, and other high matters, we will discuss at meeting, which I hope will be on your return. We don’t leave town till August.
“Ever,” &c.
LETTER 224. TO MR. SOTHEBY.
“Sept. 15. 1815. Piccadilly Terrace.
“Dear Sir,
“‘Ivan’ is accepted, and will be put in progress on Kean’s arrival.
“The theatrical gentlemen have a confident hope of its success. I know not that any alterations for the stage will be necessary; if any, they will be trifling, and you shall be duly apprised. I would suggest that you should not attend any except the latter rehearsals — the managers have requested me to state this to you. You can see them, viz. Dibdin and Rae, whenever you please, and I will do any thing you wish to be done on your suggestion, in the mean time.
“Mrs. Mardyn is not yet out, and nothing can be determined till she has made her appearance — I mean as to her capacity for the part you mention, which I take it for granted is not in Ivan — as I think Ivan may be performed very well without her. But of that hereafter. Ever yours, very truly,
“BYRON.
“P.S. You will be glad to hear that the season has begun uncommonly well — great and constant houses — the performers in much harmony with the Committee and one another, and as much good-humour as can be preserved in such complicated and extensive interests as the Drury Lane proprietary.”
TO MR. SOTHEBY.
“September 25. 1815.
“Dear Sir,
“I think it would be advisable for you to see the acting managers when convenient, as there must be points on which you will want to confer; the objection I stated was merely on the part of the performers, and is general and not particular to this instance. I thought it as well to mention it at once — and some of the rehearsals you will doubtless see, notwithstanding.
“Rae, I rather think, has his eye on Naritzin for himself. He is a more popular performer than Bartley, and certainly the cast will be stronger with him in it; besides, he is one of the managers, and will feel doubly interested if he can act in both capacities. Mrs. Bartley will be Petrowna; — as to the Empress, I know not what to say or think. The truth is, we are not amply furnished with tragic women; but make the best of those we have, — you can take your choice of them. We have all great hopes of the success — on which, setting aside other considerations, we are particularly anxious, as being the first tragedy to be brought out since the old Committee.
“By the way — I have a charge against you. As the great Mr. Dennis roared out on a similar occasion— ‘By G —— d, that is my thunder!’ so do I exclaim, ‘This is my lightning!’ I allude to a speech of Ivan’s, in the scene with Petrowna and the Empress, where the thought and almost expression are similar to Conrad’s in the 3d Canto of ‘The Corsair.’ I, however, do not say this to accuse you, but to exempt myself from suspicion, as there is a priority of six months’ publication, on my part, between the appearance of that composition and of your tragedies.
“George Lambe meant to have written to you. If you don’t like to confer with the managers at present, I will attend to your wishes — so state them. Yours very truly, BYRON.”
LETTER 225. TO MR. TAYLOR.
“13. Terrace, Piccadilly, September 25. 1815.
“Dear Sir,
“I am sorry you should feel uneasy at what has by no means troubled me. If your editor, his co
rrespondents, and readers, are amused, I have no objection to be the theme of all the ballads he can find room for, — provided his lucubrations are confined to me only.
“It is a long time since things of this kind have ceased to ‘fright me from my propriety;’ nor do I know any similar attack which would induce me to turn again, — unless it involved those connected with me, whose qualities, I hope, are such as to exempt them in the eyes of those who bear no good-will to myself. In such a case, supposing it to occur — to reverse the saying of Dr. Johnson,— ‘what the law could not do for me, I would do for myself,’ be the consequences what they might.
“I return you, with many thanks, Colman and the letters. The poems, I hope, you intended me to keep; — at least, I shall do so, till I hear the contrary. Very truly yours.”
TO MR. MURRAY.
“Sept. 25. 1815.
“Will you publish the Drury Lane ‘Magpie?’ or, what is more, will you give fifty, or even forty, pounds for the copyright of the said? I have undertaken to ask you this question on behalf of the translator, and wish you would. We can’t get so much for him by ten pounds from any body else, and I, knowing your magnificence, would be glad of an answer. Ever,” &c.
LETTER 226. TO MR. MURRAY.
“September 27. 1815.
“That’s right and splendid, and becoming a publisher of high degree. Mr. Concanen (the translator) will be delighted, and pay his washerwoman; and, in reward for your bountiful behaviour in this instance, I won’t ask you to publish any more for Drury Lane, or any lane whatever, again. You will have no tragedy or any thing else from me, I assure you, and may think yourself lucky in having got rid of me, for good and all, without more damage. But I’ll tell you what we will do for you, — act Sotheby’s Ivan, which will succeed; and then your present and next impression of the dramas of that dramatic gentleman will be expedited to your heart’s content; and if there is any thing very good, you shall have the refusal; but you sha’n’t have any more requests.
“Sotheby has got a thought, and almost the words, from the third Canto of The Corsair, which, you know, was published six months before his tragedy. It is from the storm in Conrad’s cell. I have written to Mr. Sotheby to claim it; and, as Dennis roared out of the pit, ‘By G —— d, that’s my thunder!’ so do I, and will I, exclaim, ‘By G —— d that’s my lightning!’ that electrical fluid being, in fact, the subject of the said passage.
“You will have a print of Fanny Kelly, in the Maid, to prefix, which is honestly worth twice the money you have given for the MS. Pray what did you do with the note I gave you about Mungo Park?
“Ever,” &c.
LETTER 227. TO MR. MOORE.
“13. Terrace, Piccadilly, October 28. 1815.
“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 pay a shilling in the pound, would do much credit to the management. Mr. —— has an accepted tragedy * * * * *, whose first scene is in his sleep (I don’t mean the author’s). It was forwarded to us as a prodigious favourite of Kean’s; but the said Kean, upon interrogation, denies his eulogy, and protests against his part. How it will end, I know not.
“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, and in distress, and about to publish two vols. of Poesy and Biography, and who has been worse used by the critics than ever we were — will you, if he comes out, promise me to review him favourably in the E.R.? Praise him I think you must, but you will also praise him well, — of all things the most difficult. It will be the making of him.
“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. Ever yours most affectionately, B.
“P.S. This is a sad scribbler’s letter; but the next shall be ‘more of this world.’”
As, after this letter, there occur but few allusions to his connection with the Drury Lane Management, I shall here avail myself of the opportunity to give some extracts from his “Detached Thoughts,” containing recollections of his short acquaintance with the interior of the theatre.
“When I belonged to the Drury Lane Committee, and was one of the Sub-Committee of Management, the number of plays upon the shelves were about five hundred. Conceiving that amongst these there must be some of merit, in person and by proxy I caused an investigation. I do not think that of those which I saw there was one which could be conscientiously tolerated. There never were such things as most of them! Mathurin was very kindly recommended to me by Walter Scott, to whom I had recourse, firstly, in the hope that he would do something for us himself; and, secondly, in my despair, that he would point out to us any young (or old) writer of promise. Mathurin sent his Bertram and a letter without his address, so that at first I could give him no answer. When I at last hit upon his residence, I sent him a favourable answer and something more substantial. His play succeeded; but I was at that time absent from England.
“I tried Coleridge too; but he had nothing feasible in hand at the time. Mr. Sotheby obligingly offered all his tragedies, and I pledged myself, and notwithstanding many squabbles with my Committed Brethren, did get ‘Ivan’ accepted, read, and the parts distributed. But, lo! in the very heart of the matter, upon some tepidness on the part of Kean, or warm
th on that of the author, Sotheby withdrew his play. Sir J.B. Burgess did also present four tragedies and a farce, and I moved green-room and Sub-Committee, but they would not.
“Then the scenes I had to go through! — the authors, and the authoresses, and the milliners, and the wild Irishmen, — the people from Brighton, from Blackwall; from Chatham, from Cheltenham, from Dublin, from Dundee, — who came in upon me! to all of whom it was proper to give a civil answer, and a hearing, and a reading. Mrs. * * * *’s father, an Irish dancing-master of sixty years, calling upon me to request to play Archer, dressed in silk stockings on a frosty morning to show his legs (which were certainly good and Irish for his age, and had been still better,) — Miss Emma Somebody, with a play entitled ‘The Bandit of Bohemia,’ or some such title or production, — Mr. O’Higgins, then resident at Richmond, with an Irish tragedy, in which the unities could not fail to be observed, for the protagonist was chained by the leg to a pillar during the chief part of the performance. He was a wild man, of a salvage appearance, and the difficulty of not laughing at him was only to be got over by reflecting upon the probable consequences of such cachinnation.
“As I am really a civil and polite person, and do hate giving pain when it can be avoided, I sent them up to Douglas Kinnaird, — who is a man of business, and sufficiently ready with a negative, — and left them to settle with him; and as the beginning of next year I went abroad, I have since been little aware of the progress of the theatres.
