“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