Chapter V: Letter 158: To Mr. Murray

"Newstead Abbey, January 22. 1814.

"You will be glad to hear of my safe arrival here. The time of my
return will depend upon the weather, which is so impracticable,
that this letter has to advance through more snows than ever
opposed the Emperor's retreat. The roads are impassable, and return
impossible for the present; which I do not regret, as I am much at
my ease, and _six-and-twenty_ complete this day--a very pretty age,
if it would always last. Our coals are excellent, our fire-places
large, my cellar full, and my head empty; and I have not yet
recovered my joy at leaving London. If any unexpected turn occurred
with my purchasers, I believe I should hardly quit the place at
all; but shut my door, and let my beard grow.

"I forgot to mention (and I hope it is unnecessary) that the lines
beginning--_Remember him_, &c. must _not_ appear with _The
Corsair_. You may slip them in with the smaller pieces newly
annexed to _Childe Harold_; but on no account permit them to be
appended to The Corsair. Have the goodness to recollect this
particularly.

"The books I have brought with me are a great consolation for the
confinement, and I bought more as we came along. In short, I never
consult the thermometer, and shall not put up prayers for a _thaw_,
unless I thought it would sweep away the rascally invaders of
France. Was ever such a thing as Blucher's proclamation?

"Just before I left town, Kemble paid me the compliment of desiring
me to write a _tragedy_; I wish I could, but I find my scribbling
mood subsiding--not before it was time; but it is lucky to check it
at all. If I lengthen my letter, you will think it is coming on
again; so, good-by. Yours alway,

"B.

"P.S. If you hear any news of battle or retreat on the part of the
Allies (as they call them), pray send it. He has my best wishes to
manure the fields of France with an _invading_ army. I hate
invaders of all countries, and have no patience with the cowardly
cry of exultation over him, at whose name you all turned whiter
than the snow to which you are indebted for your triumphs.

"I open my letter to thank you for yours just received. The 'Lines
to a Lady Weeping' must go with The Corsair. I care nothing for
consequence, on this point. My politics are to me like a young
mistress to an old man--the worse they grow, the fonder I become of
them. As Mr. Gilford likes the 'Portuguese Translation[11],' pray
insert it as an addition to The Corsair.

"In all points of difference between Mr. Gifford and Mr. Dallas,
let the first keep his place; and in all points of difference
between Mr. Gifford and Mr. Anybody-else, I shall abide by the
former; if I am wrong, I can't help it. But I would rather not be
right with any other person. So there is an end of that matter.
After all the trouble he has taken about me and mine, I should be
very ungrateful to feel or act otherwise. Besides, in point of
judgment, he is not to be lowered by a comparison. In _politics_,
he may be right too; but that with me is a _feeling_, and I can't
_torify_ my nature."

[Footnote 11: His translation of the pretty Portuguese song, "Tu mi chamas." He was tempted to try another version of this ingenious thought, which is, perhaps, still more happy, and has never, I believe, appeared in print.

"You call me still your _life_--ah! change the word--
Life is as transient as th' inconstant's sigh;
Say rather I'm your _soul_, more just that name,
For, like the soul, my love can never die."
]

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