“Pray write; you shall hear when I remove to Lancs.  I have brought you and my friend Juvenal Hodgson upon my back, on the score of revelation.  You are fervent, but he is quite glowing; and if he take half the pains to save his own soul, which he volunteers to redeem mine, great will be his reward hereafter.  I honour and thank you both, but am convinced by neither.  Now for notes.  Besides those I have sent, I shall send the observations on the Edinburgh Reviewer’s remarks on the modern Greek, an Albanian song in the Albanian (not Greek) language, specimens of modern Greek from their New Testament, a comedy of Goldoni’s translated, one scene, a prospectus of a friend’s book, and perhaps a song or two, all in Romaic, besides their Pater Noster; so there will be enough, if not too much, with what I have already sent.  Have you received the ‘Noetes Atticae?’ I sent also an annotation on Portugal.  Hobhouse is also forthcoming.”

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LETTER 70.  TO MR. DALLAS.

     “Newstead Abbey, Sept. 23. 1811.

“Lisboa is the Portuguese word, consequently the very best.  Ulissipont is pedantic; and as I have Hellas and Eros not long before, there would be something like an affectation of Greek terms, which I wish to avoid, since I shall have a perilous quantity of modern Greek in my notes, as specimens of the tongue; therefore Lisboa may keep its place.  You are right about the ‘Hints;’ they must not precede the ‘Romaunt;’ but Cawthorn will be savage if they don’t; however, keep them back, and him in good humour, if we can, but do not let him publish.

“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.’  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 book-selling, 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, 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.”

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