"Though black as his heart its hue,
Since his veins are corrupted to mud,
Yet this is the dew
Which the tree shall renew
Of Liberty, planted by Ludd!
There's an amiable _chanson_ for you--all impromptu. I have written it
principally to shock your neighbour ----, who is all clergy and
loyalty--mirth and innocence--milk and water.
"But the Carnival's coming,
Oh Thomas Moore,
The Carnival's coming,
Oh Thomas Moore,
Masking and humming,
Fifing and drumming,
Guitarring and strumming,
Oh Thomas Moore.
The other night I saw a new play--and the author. The subject was the
sacrifice of Isaac. The play succeeded, and they called for the
author--according to continental custom--and he presented himself: a noble
Venetian, Mali, or Malapiero by name. Mala was his name, and _pessima_ his
production--at least, I thought so, and I ought to know, having read more
or less of five hundred Drury-lane offerings, during my coadjutorship with
the sub-and-super committee.
"When does your Poem of Poems come out? I hear that the E.R. has cut up
Coleridge's Christabel, and declared against me for praising it. I praised
it, firstly, because I thought well of it; secondly, because Coleridge was
in great distress, and, after doing what little I could for him in
essentials, I thought that the public avowal of my good opinion might help
him further, at least with the booksellers.
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