If you have patience, look it over. Do you
know any body who can _stop_--I mean _point_-commas, and so forth? for I
am, I hear, a sad hand at your punctuation. I have, but with some
difficulty, _not_ added any more to this snake of a poem, which has been
lengthening its rattles every month. It is now fearfully long, being
more than a canto and a half of _C. H_., which contains but 882 lines
per book, with all late additions inclusive.
The last lines Hodgson likes--it is not often he does--and when he
don't, he tells me with great energy, and I fret and alter. I have
thrown them in to soften the ferocity of our Infidel, and, for a dying
man, have given him a good deal to say for himself.
Do you think you shall get hold of the _female_ MS. you spoke of to day?
if so, you will let me have a glimpse; but don't tell our _master_ (not
W's), or we shall be buffeted.
I was quite sorry to hear you say you stayed in town on my account, and
I hope sincerely you did not mean so superfluous a piece of politeness.
Our _six_ critiques!--they would have made half a _Quarterly_ by
themselves; but this is the age of criticism.
Ever yours,
B.
* * * * *
324.--To Thomas Moore.
August 28, 1813.
Ay, my dear Moore, "there _was_ a time"--I have heard of your tricks,
when "you was campaigning at the King of Bohemy." [1]
I am much mistaken if, some fine London spring, about the year 1815,
that time does not come again.
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