. . . You never say a word about your Hafiz. Has that fallen for the
present, Austin not daring to embark in it in these days of war, when
nothing that is not warlike sells except Macaulay? Don't suppose I bandy
compliments; but, with moderate care, any such Translation of such a
writer as Hafiz by you into pure, sweet, and partially measured Prose
must be better than what I am doing for Jami; {304} whose ingenuous
prattle I am stilting into too Miltonic verse. This I am very sure of.
But it is done.
[_Jan_. 1856.]