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THIS book of Seven Stories, before which I in&longs;cribe
your name, is made up from tho&longs;e &longs;pecial reminiscences
of travel, which—after a lap&longs;e of ten years—hang
stronge&longs;t in my mind. I think there are &longs;ome pa&longs;&longs;ably good
things in it; and &longs;ome, I fear, which are not &longs;o good. Thus
far, it is unlike your practice, of which the &longs;oundness is
uniform.

At be&longs;t, I count the book only a little bundle of fagots
which I have &longs;et to crackle away under the kettle, where I

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hope &longs;ome day to cook a more &longs;avory me&longs;s. And though
there be not much in this which &longs;hall &longs;tick to the ribs, I
hope there is nothing that will breed in any man an indigestion.
I think you count light food &longs;ometimes a good dietary;
and unle&longs;s I am mi&longs;taken, I have known you, on
occasions, to &longs;mother a pill in a &longs;yllabub. And if I have
tried to drop here and there, in the cour&longs;e of the&longs;e pages, a
nugget of whole&longs;ome &longs;entiment, I hope it may prove as good
a tonic as any of your iodides.

I feel rea&longs;onably certain that the charge for it will be
&longs;maller:—but on this &longs;core, I cannot &longs;peak po&longs;itively, &longs;ince
your genero&longs;ity always keeps me your debtor.

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