“The lines which I sketched off on your hint are still, or rather were, in an unfinished state, for I have just committed them to a flame more decisive than that of Drury.  Under all the circumstances, I should hardly wish a contest with Philo-drama—­Philo-Drury—­Asbestos, H * *, and all the anonymes and synonymes of Committee candidates.  Seriously, I think you have a chance of something much better; for prologuising is not my forte, and, at all events, either my pride or my modesty won’t let me incur the hazard of having my rhymes buried in next month’s Magazine, under ‘Essays on the Murder of Mr. Perceval,’ and ’Cures for the Bite of a Mad Dog,’ as poor Goldsmith complained of the fate of far superior performances.

“I am still sufficiently interested to wish to know the successful candidate; and, amongst so many, I have no doubt some will be excellent, particularly in an age when writing verse is the easiest of all attainments.

“I cannot answer your intelligence with the ‘like comfort,’ unless, as you are deeply theatrical, you may wish to hear of Mr. * *, whose acting is, I fear, utterly inadequate to the London engagement into which the managers of Covent Garden have lately entered.  His figure is fat, his features flat, his voice unmanageable, his action ungraceful, and, as Diggory says, ’I defy him to extort that d——­d muffin face of his into madness.’  I was very sorry to see him in the character of the ’Elephant on the slack rope;’ for, when I last saw him, I was in raptures with his performance.  But then I was sixteen—­an age to which all London condescended to subside.  After all, much better judges have admired, and may again; but I venture to ‘prognosticate a prophecy’ (see the Courier) that he will not succeed.

“So, poor dear Rogers has stuck fast on ’the brow of the mighty Helvellyn’—­I hope not for ever.  My best respects to Lady H.:—­her departure, with that of my other friends, was a sad event for me, now reduced to a state of the most cynical solitude.  ’By the waters of Cheltenham I sat down and drank, when I remembered thee, oh Georgiana Cottage!  As for our harps, we hanged them up upon the willows that grew thereby.  Then they said, Sing us a song of Drury Lane,’ &c.;—­but I am dumb and dreary as the Israelites.  The waters have disordered me to my heart’s content—­you were right, as you always are.  Believe me ever your obliged and affectionate servant,

     “BYRON.”

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