My dear Sir,—You have left a picture for me, I
understand, at Paddington, where the rogues are savagely withholding it from me. I
shall have it, I suppose, in the course of the day, and conjecture it to be some
poet’s or politician’s head that you have picked up in turning over
some old engravings. I beg you to laugh very heartily, by the bye, if I am
anticipating a present, where there is none. I am apt, from old remembrances, to
fall into this extravagance respecting the Enfield quarter, and do it with the less
scruple, inasmuch as you are obliging enough to consult my taste in this
particular—which is, small gifts from large hearts. I am glad, however, in
the present instance that I have been made to wait a little, since it enables me,
for once, to be beforehand with you, and I can at least send
you your long-promised books. The binder, notwithstanding my particular
injunctions, and not having seen, I suppose, the colour of the fields lately enough
to remember it, has made the
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