In a Letter to B.F. Esq. at Sydney, New South Wales My dear F. -- When I think how wele the sight of a letter from the world where you were born must be to you in that strange oo which you have been transplanted, I feel some punctious visitings at my long silence. But, indeed, it is no easy effort to set about a corresponde our distahe weary world of waters between us oppresses the imagination. It is difficult to ceive how a scrawl of mine should ever stretch across it. It is a sort of presumption to expect that ohoughts should live so far. It is like writing for posterity: and reminds me of one of Mrs. Rowes superscriptions, "Alder to Strephon, in the shades." Cowleys Post-Angel is no more than would be expedient in su intercourse. One drops a packet at Lombard- street, and iy-four hours a friend in Cumberlas it as fresh as if it came i is only like whispering through a long trumpet. But suppose a tube let down from the moon, with yourself at one end, and the man at the other; it would be some balk to the spirit of versation, if you khat the dialogue exged with that iing theosophist would take two or three revolutions of a higher luminary in its passage. Yet fht I know, you may be some parasangs hat primitive idea -- Platos man -- than we in England here have the honour to re ourselves.
Epistolary matter usually priseth three topiews, se, and puns. Iter, I include all non-serious subjects; or subjects serious in themselves, but treated after my fashion, nonseriously. -- And first, for news. Ihe most desirable circumstance, I suppose, is that they shall be true. But what security I have that what I now send you for truth shall not before you get it unatably turn into a lie? For instanutual friend P. is at this present writing -- my Now -- in good health, and enjoys a fair share of worldly reputation. Ylad to hear it. This is natural and friendly. But at this present reading -- your Now -- he may possibly be in the Bench, oing to be hanged, whi reason ought to abate something of your transport (i.e. at hearing he was well, &c.), or at least siderably to modify it. I am going to the play this evening, to have a laugh with Munden. You have no theatre, I think you told me, in your land of d---d realities. You naturally lick your lips, and envy me my felicity. Think but a moment, and you will correct the hateful emotion. Why, it is Sunday m with you, and 1823. This fusion of tehis grand solecism of two presents, is in a degree on to all postage. But if I sent you word to Bath or the Devises, that I was expeg the aforesaid treat this evening, though at the moment you received the intelligence my full feast of fun would be over, yet there would be for a day or two after, as you would well know, a smack, a relish left upon my mental palate, which would give rational encement for you to foster a portion at least of the disagreeable passion, which it was in part my iion to produce. But ten months hence your envy or your sympathy would be as useless as a passio upon the dead. Not only does truth, in these long intervals, un-essence herself, but (what is harder) one ot venture a crude fi for the fear that it may ripen into a truth upon the voyage. What a wild improbable banter I put upon you some three years since -- - of Will Weatherall having married a servant-maid! I remember gravely sulting you hoere to receive her -- for Wills wife was in no case to be rejected; and your no less serious replication iter; how tenderly you advised an