In a Letter to B.F. Esq. at Sydney, New South Wales My dear F. -- When I think how welcome the sight of a letter from the world where you were born must be to you in that strange one to which you have been transplanted, I feel some compunctious visitings at my long silence. But, indeed, it is no easy effort to set about a correspondence at our distance. The weary world of waters between us oppresses the imagination. It is difficult to conceive how a scrawl of mine should ever stretch across it. It is a sort of presumption to expect that ones thoughts should live so far. It is like writing for posterity: and reminds me of one of Mrs. Rowes superscriptions, "Alcander to Strephon, in the shades." Cowleys Post-Angel is no more than would be expedient in such an intercourse. One drops a packet at Lombard- street, and in twenty-four hours a friend in Cumberland gets it as fresh as if it came in ice. It 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 conversation, if you knew that the dialogue exchanged with that interesting theosophist would take two or three revolutions of a higher luminary in its passage. Yet for aught I know, you may be some parasangs nigher that primitive idea -- Platos man -- than we in England here have the honour to reckon ourselves.

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