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Byron
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Memoir of John Murray
Charles Maturin to John Murray, 19 August 1816
INTRODUCTION & INDEXES
DOCUMENT INFORMATION
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Preface
Vol. 1 Contents
Chapter I.
Chapter II.
Chapter III.
Chapter IV.
Chapter V.
Chapter VI.
Chapter VII.
Chapter VIII.
Chapter IX.
Chapter X.
Chapter XI.
Chapter XII.
Chapter XIII.
Chapter XIV.
Chapter XV.
Chapter XVI.
Chapter XVII.
Chapter XVIII.
Chapter XIX.
Vol. 2 Contents
Chap. XX.
Chap. XXI.
Chap. XXII.
Chap. XXIII.
Chap. XXIV.
Chap. XXV.
Chap. XXVI.
Chap. XXVII.
Chap. XXVIII.
Chap. XXIX.
Chap. XXX.
Chap. XXXI.
Chap. XXXII.
Chap. XXXIII.
Chap. XXXIV.
Chap. XXXV.
Chap. XXXVI.
Chap. XXXVII.
Index
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Licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.
Produced by CATH
 
August 19th, 1816.

From your letter I judge that you do not wish me to produce anything till after the appearance of my next
MATURIN’S ‘MANUEL.’295
tragedy. I perfectly agree with you, but entre nous I labour under most serious difficulties in the composition. I have not a single friend to consult, no books, no excitement of any description, and you know not what nonsense a man may write who has only his own imagination to prompt, and his own ear to please. The state of the public mind, too, is unfavourable; the nation is out of humour with the Peace, and the marriage, and the taxes make the success of a work of imagination more problematical than ever. There is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your ‘English’ lion living, when once his rage is roused. However, I am, as all authors should be, doing my best and thinking my worst; and, to confess the truth, what I have written pleases me better than ‘Bertram.’ I am infinitely obliged by your having the goodness to assure me that the impression I made was favourable, but I confess I want all the evidence of your testimony to prove it. I went over, not expecting much, and came back receiving nothing, not even common civility, which in certain quarters I surely was entitled to as an invited stranger. But let that go to the Tomb of all the Capulets. Let me beg of you to write to me. I cannot describe to you the effect of an English letter on my spirits; it is like the wind to an Æolian harp. I cannot produce a note without it. Give me advice, abuse, news, anything, or nothing (if it were possible that you could write nothing), but write. Send me an account of your tour, and I will give you in return the ‘Journal of an Irish Lodging House,’ where I have been murdering the summer, and I can promise the balance will not leave me in your debt for the miseries of excursions. With best respects to Mrs. Murray,

Believe me, yours most truly,
C. Rob. Maturin.