June 22, 1813.
Dear Sir,--I send you a _corrected_ copy of the lines with several
_important_ alterations,--so many that this had better be sent for proof
rather than subject the other to so many blots.
You will excuse the eternal trouble I inflict upon you. As you will see,
I have attended to your Criticism, and softened a passage you proscribed
this morning.
Yours veritably,
B.
* * * * *
305.--To Thomas Moore.
June 22, 1813.
Yesterday I dined in company with Stael, the "Epicene," [1] whose
politics are sadly changed. She is for the Lord of Israel and the Lord
of Liverpool--a vile antithesis of a Methodist and a Tory--talks of
nothing but devotion and the ministry, and, I presume, expects that God
and the government will help her to a pension.
Murray, the [Greek: anax] of publishers, the Anak of stationers, has a
design upon you in the paper line. He wants you to become the staple and
stipendiary editor of a periodical work. What say you? Will you be
bound, like "Kit Smart, to write for ninety-nine years in the
_Universal Visitor?_" [2]
Seriously, he talks of hundreds a year, and--though I hate prating of
the beggarly elements--his proposal may be to your honour and profit,
and, I am very sure, will be to our pleasure.
I don't know what to say about "friendship." I never was in friendship
but once, in my nineteenth year, and then it gave me as much trouble as
love.
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