In
April or the end of March, when the book was published, I duly
handed out a Copy for Concord and you; it was to be sent by
mail; but, as my Publisher (a _new_ Chapman, very unlike the
_old_) discloses to me lately an incredible negligence on such
points, it is quite possible the dog may _not,_ for a long while,
have put it in the Post-Office (though he faithfully charged me
the postage of it, and was paid), and that the poor waif may
never yet have reached you! Patience: it will come soon
enough,--there are two thick volumes, and they will stand you a
great deal of reading; stiff rather than "light."
Since February last, I have been sauntering about in Devonshire,
in Chelsea, hither, thither; idle as a dry bone, in fact, a
creature sinking into deeper and deeper _collapse,_ after twelve
years of such mulish pulling and pushing; creature now good for
nothing seemingly, and much indifferent to being so in
permanence, if that be the arrangement come upon by the Powers
that made us. Some three or four weeks ago, I came rolling down
hither, into this old nook of my Birthland, to see poor old
Annandale again with eyes, and the poor remnants of kindred and
loved ones still left me there; I was not at first very lucky
(lost sleep, &c.
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