he last Packet, which sailed on the 3d of the
month, I forgot to write to you, though already in your debt
one Letter; and there now has another Letter arrived, which on
the footing of mere business demands to be answered. I write
straightway; not knowing how the Post-Office people will
contrive the conveyance, or whether it can be sooner than by the
next Steam ship, but willing to give them a chance.

You have made another brave bargain for me with the Philadelphia
people; to all of which I can say nothing but _"Euge! Papae!"_
It seems to me strange, in the present state of Copyright, how my
sanction or the contrary can be worth L50 to any American
Bookseller; but so it is, to all appearance; let it be so,
therefore, with thanks and surprise. The Messrs. Carey and Lea
distinguish themselves by the beauty of their Editions; a poor
Author does not go abroad among his friends in dirty paper, full
of misprints, under their guidance; this is as handsome an item
of the business as any. As to the Portrait too, I will be as
"amiable" as heart could wish; truly it will be worth my while
to take a little pains that the kind Philadelphia Editors do once
for all get a faithful Portrait of me, since they are about it,
and so prevent counterfeits from getting into circulation. I
will endeavor to do in that matter whatsoever they require of me;
to the extent even of sitting two days for a Crayon Sketch such
as may be engraved,--though this new sacrifice of patience will
not be needed as matters are. It stands thus: there is no
Painter, of the numbers who have wasted my time and their own
with trying, that has indicated any capability of catching a true
Likeness, but one Samuel Lawrence; a young Painter of real
talent, not quite so young now, but still only struggling for
complete mastership in the management of colors. He does crayon
sketches in a way to please almost himself; but his oil
paintings, at least till within a year or two, have indicated
only a great faculty still crude in that particular. His oil
portrait of me, which you speak of, is almost terrible to behold!
It has the look of a Jotun, of a Scandinavian Demon, grim, sad,
as the angel of Death;--and the coloring is so _brick_ish, the
finishing so coarse, it reminds you withal of a flayed horse's
head! _"Dinna speak o't."_ But the preparatory crayon-sketch of
this, still in existence, is admired by some judges; poor John
Sterling bought it from