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325.--To Thomas Moore.
August--September, I mean--1, 1813.
I send you, begging your acceptance, Castellan, and three vols. on
Turkish literature [1], not yet looked into. The _last_ I will thank you
to read, extract what you want, and return in a week, as they are lent
to me by that brightest of Northern constellations, Mackintosh
[2],--amongst many other kind things into which India has warmed him;
for I am sure your _home_ Scotsman is of a less genial description.
Your Peri, my dear M., is sacred and inviolable; I have no idea of
touching the hem of her petticoat. Your affectation of a dislike to
encounter me is so flattering, that I begin to think myself a very fine
fellow. But you are laughing at me--"Stap my vitals, Tam! thou art a
very impudent person;" [3] and, if you are not laughing at me, you
deserve to be laughed at. Seriously, what on earth can you, or have you,
to dread from any poetical flesh breathing? It really puts me out of
humour to hear you talk thus.
_The Giaour_ I have added to a good deal; but still in foolish
fragments. It contains about 1200 lines, or rather more--now printing.
You will allow me to send you a copy. You delight me much by telling me
that I am in your good graces, and more particularly as to temper; for,
unluckily, I have the reputation of a very bad one. But they say the
devil is amusing when pleased, and I must have been more venomous than
the old serpent, to have hissed or stung in your company.
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