I despatched to you some time ago the whole of the first volume of my ‘Journal,’ and received the other day from you an acknowledgment of sixteen sheets. I don’t know quite what to make of this, but where so wide a distance intervenes chances and delays are things of course, and should be taken patiently. Some portion of the book has been stolen from the printing office of my publisher here, and the wrath of the natives is excited to such a pitch against me that I can only promise the second volume if I live. The papers here have opened like a pack of hounds (as they are) upon the matter, and I have had some thoughts of forwarding a few of the paragraphs to you, for your special edification. Indeed, I think a string of these elegant specimens of criticism wouldn’t do amiss, just like the commendatory notices from such and such reviews at the beginning of my book. It may want a puff, you know, and I assure you this would be a new one. I fear I shall not see dear England again this year—perhaps never again. I am, my dear Sir,
