I have adopted, I believe, most of your suggestions, but "Lisboa" will
be an exception to prove the rule. I have sent a quantity of notes, and
shall continue; but pray let them be copied; no devil can read my hand.
By the by, I do not mean to exchange the ninth verse of the "Good
Night." [2] I have no reason to suppose my dog better than his brother
brutes, mankind; and _Argus_ we know to be a fable. The _Cosmopolite_
was an acquisition abroad. I do not believe it is to be found in
England. It is an amusing little volume, and full of French flippancy. I
read, though I do not speak the language.
I _will_ be angry with Murray. It was a bookselling, back-shop,
Paternoster-row, paltry proceeding; and if the experiment had turned out
as it deserved, I would have raised all Fleet Street, and borrowed the
giant's staff from St. Dunstan's church, [3] to immolate the betrayer of
trust. I have written to him as he never was written to before by an
author, I'll be sworn, and I hope you will amplify my wrath, till it has
an effect upon him. You tell me always you have much to write about.
Write it, but let us drop metaphysics;--on that point we shall never
agree. I am dull and drowsy, as usual. I do nothing, and even that
nothing fatigues me.
Adieu.
[Footnote 1: See 'Childe Harold', Canto I. stanza xvi., and Byron's
'note'.]
[Footnote 2: See 'Childe Harold', Canto I. The "Good Night" is placed
between stanzas xiii. and xiv.
"And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea;
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger hands;
But long ere I come back again
He'd tear me where he stands.
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