Nourjahad
, a drama, which the
Morning Post
hath laid to my charge, but of which I cannot even guess the author. I wonder what they will next inflict upon me. They cannot well sink below a melodrama; but that is better than a satire, (at least, a personal one,) with which I stand truly arraigned, and in atonement of which I am resolved to bear silently all criticisms, abuses, and even praises, for bad pantomimes never composed by me, without even a contradictory aspect. I suppose the root of this report is my loan to the manager of my Turkish drawings for his dresses, to which he was more welcome than to my name. I suppose the real author will soon own it, as it has succeeded; if not, Job be my model, and Lethe my beverage!
—— has received the portrait safe; and, in answer, the only remark she makes upon it is, "indeed it is like"—and again, "indeed it is like." With her the likeness "covered a multitude of sins;" for I happen to know that this portrait was not a flatterer, but dark and stern,—even black as the mood in which my mind was scorching last July, when I sat for it. All the others of me, like most portraits whatsoever, are, of course, more agreeable than nature.
Redde the
Edinburgh Review
of Rogers. He is ranked highly; but where he should be.
is a summary view of us all—