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, Tarn!
thou art a very impudent person;' 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. It may be, and would appear to a third
person, an incredible thing, but I know you will believe me when I
say, that I am as anxious for your success as one human being can
be for another's,--as much as if I had never scribbled a line.
Surely the field of fame is wide enough for all; and if it were
not, I would not willingly rob my neighbour of a rood of it. Now
you have a pretty property of some thousand acres there, and when
you have passed your present Inclosure Bill, your income will be
doubled, (there's a metaphor, worthy of a Templar, namely, pert and
low,) while my wild common is too remote to incommode you, and
quite incapable of such fertility. I send you (which return per
post, as the printer would say) a curious letter from a friend of
mine[83], which will let you into the origin of 'The Giaour.' Write
soon. Ever, dear Moore, yours most entirely, &c.