"May 14. 1821.
"If any part of the letter to Bowles has (unintentionally, as far
as I remember the contents) vexed you, you are fully avenged; for I
see by an Italian paper that, notwithstanding all my remonstrances
through all my friends (and yourself among the rest), the managers
persisted in attempting the tragedy, and that it has been
'unanimously hissed!!' This is the consolatory phrase of the Milan
paper, (which detests me cordially, and abuses me, on all
occasions, as a Liberal,) with the addition that _I_ 'brought the
play out' of my own good will.
"All this is vexatious enough, and seems a sort of dramatic
Calvinism--predestined damnation, without a sinner's own fault. I
took all the pains poor mortal could to prevent this inevitable
catastrophe--partly by appeals of all kinds up to the Lord
Chamberlain, and partly to the fellows themselves. But, as
remonstrance was vain, complaint is useless. I do not understand
it--for Murray's letter of the 24th, and all his preceding ones,
gave me the strongest hopes that there would be no representation.
As yet, I know nothing but the fact, which I presume to be true, as
the date is Paris, and the 30th. They must have been in a _hell_ of
a hurry for this damnation, since I did not even know that it was
published; and, without its being first published, the histrions
could not have got hold of it. Any one might have seen, at a
glance, that it was utterly impracticable for the stage; and this
little accident will by no means enhance its merit in the closet.
"Well, patience is a virtue, and, I suppose, practice will make it
perfect. Since last year (spring, that is) I have lost a lawsuit,
of great importance, on Rochdale collieries--have occasioned a
divorce--have had my poesy disparaged by Murray and the critics--my
fortune refused to be placed on an advantageous settlement (in
Ireland) by the trustees--my life threatened last month (they put
about a paper here to excite an attempt at my assassination, on
account of politics, and a notion which the priests disseminated
that I was in a league against the Germans,)--and, finally, my
mother-in-law recovered last fortnight, and my play was damned last
week! These are like 'the eight-and-twenty misfortunes of
Harlequin.' But they must be borne. If I give in, it shall be after
keeping up a spirit at least. I should not have cared so much about
it, if our southern neighbours had not bungled us all out of
freedom for these five hundred years to come.
"Did you know John Keats? They say that he was killed by a review
of him in the Quarterly--if he be dead, which I really don't know.
I don't understand that _yielding_ sensitiveness. What I feel (as
at this present) is an immense rage for eight-and-forty hours, and
then, as usual--unless this time it should last longer. I must get
on horseback to quiet me. Yours, &c.
"Francis I. wrote, after the battle of Pavia, 'All is lost except
our honour.' A hissed author may reverse it--'_Nothing_ is lost,
except our honour.' But the horses are waiting, and the paper full.
I wrote last week to you."
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