myself, but get but little rest—­disagreeable dreams—­digestion not quite so good as I could wish; been on the water system—­won’t do; have left it off, and am now taking lessons in singing.  I hope to be in London towards the end of next month, and reckon much upon the pleasure of seeing you.  On Monday I shall mount my horse and ride into Norwich to pay a visit to a few old friends.  Yesterday the son of our excellent Dawson Turner rode over to see me; they are all well, it seems.  Our friend Joseph Gurney, however, seems to be in a strange way—­diabetes, I hear.  I frequently meditate upon “The Life,” and am arranging the scenes in my mind.  With best remembrances to Mrs. M. and all your excellent family,

Truly and respectfully yours,

GEORGE BORROW.

Mr. Richard Ford’s forthcoming work—­“The Handbook for Spain”—­about which Mr. Borrow had been making so many enquiries, was the result of many years’ hard riding and constant investigation throughout Spain, one of the least known of all European countries at that time.  Mr. Ford called upon Mr. Murray, after “The Bible in Spain” had been published, and a copy of the work was presented to him.  He was about to start on his journey to Heavitree, near Exeter.  A few days after his arrival Mr. Murray received the following letter from him: 

Mr. Richard Ford to John Murray.

“I read Borrow with great delight all the way down per rail, and it shortened the rapid flight of that velocipede.  You may depend upon it that the book will sell, which, after all, is the rub.  It is the antipodes of Lord Carnarvon, and yet how they tally in what they have in common, and that is much—­the people, the scenery of Galicia, and the suspicions and absurdities of Spanish Jacks-in-office, who yield not in ignorance or insolence to any kind of red-tapists, hatched in the hot-beds of jobbery and utilitarian mares-nests ...  Borrow spares none of them.  I see he hits right and left, and floors his man wherever he meets him.  I am pleased with his honest sincerity of purpose and his graphic abrupt style.  It is like an old Spanish ballad, leaping in res medias, going from incident to incident, bang, bang, bang, hops, steps, and jumps like a cracker, and leaving off like one, when you wish he would give you another touch or coup de grace ...  He really sometimes puts me in mind of Gil Blas; but he has not the sneer of the Frenchman, nor does he gild the bad.  He has a touch of Bunyan, and, like that enthusiastic tinker, hammers away, a la Gitano, whenever he thinks he can thwack the Devil or his man-of-all-work on earth—­the Pope.  Therein he resembles my friend and everybody’s friend—­Punch—­who, amidst all his adventures, never spares the black one.  However, I am not going to review him now; for I know that Mr. Lockhart has expressed a wish that I should do it for the Quarterly Review.  Now, a wish from my liege master is a command.  I had