I have been long most anxious to write to you, but had not the power. It is now nearly nine weeks since my old enemy, Eurus, found me in the Park, and sent me home in the custody of a severe cold, that rigidly confined me to my bedroom, and almost to my bed, till Monday last. But this would hardly justify complaint; the worst is, that the rags and tatters of my poor mind, which was broken to pieces in the more than tropical fires of last summer, and which I fondly hoped were adjusting themselves in some slight measure, became as seam-rent as before, and I could neither write, nor read, nor think, for three minutes together.
When Frere—and I cannot name him without a grateful remembrance of his considerate and affectionate attention—first mentioned the matter to me, it was so unexpected, and altogether so remote from anything that ever entered my thoughts, that in my weak state I am not sure that I fully comprehended him while he stayed. I believe he saw this, and in kindness dropped the subject. After he left me I recurred to it, and was totally overpowered. And now, my dear Canning, what can I say? I did not think that I, who have lived for the last five-and-twenty years in the pleasing assurance of possessing your regard and affection, could have been so surprised; but I cannot proceed.
I will not deny that your bounty was acceptable, because, for reasons which will not recur, the year had been a very trying one to me. But I earnestly and fervently hope that you will not think of repeating this splendid and costly proof of affection. I solemnly assure you that it is not at all necessary; for with my salary from the lottery (which is regularly paid me, and which, as I am now on the verge of seventy, will not, I trust, be withheld from me), I am even rich.
The only name given to me besides yours was that of Lord Liverpool, so that I am but imperfectly
acquainted with my benefactors. I bless God for such friends, and shall be very
careful not to lose them unnecessarily. I experienced, however, a degree of
delight not common to
| 172 | MEMOIRS OF JOHN MURRAY |
One word more, however, on a subject which is seldom out of my thoughts. Let me beg you to take care of yourself. Catch, or rather snatch at, every interval of relaxation. It is a fearful thing to break down the mind by unremitted tension. Remember what Horace says to Virgil:
“Misce stultitiam consiliis
brevem;” |
