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Letter from Frederic Henry Courrier, author of sentimental novels of family life, to the poet John William Andersson, 23 September 1819.
Dear John,
Now I, too, after my Grand Tour of the continent, have returned to the good old island where we grew up, just in time before the beginning of autumn, which in southern Germany, Savoy and northern Italy has lately become quite disagreeable.
As you can imagine, there’s a good deal to report. Or more exactly, to read to you. For being a more diligent writer than you (I said more diligent, not better), I have in the last months filled up volume upon volume of my travel diary, which I mean to publish soon. But before I do, I’d like you to hear one or two other stories that I intend to present at a reading at Woodruff Hall near The Dale; and I would particularly ask you to be so kind as to read the whole manuscript. You are the most intelligent, attentive and sensitive of us all, and the only one I trust to point out the many inaccuracies, clumsy turns of phrase and outright mistakes that I have certainly committed, not to mention the mixed metaphors, faulty similes and grammatically dubious references. If you agree, I shall reciprocate with something more substantial than my praise. We can certainly agree on the exact amount due.
At this point, however, I should moderate the light-hearted tone of the beginning of my letter, even though as an old hand at this sort of thing I am rather proud of the jaunty manner I have adopted. No, in all seriousness, I have only mentioned my many adventures on the continent by way of contrast with the really important experience I had at home, long before my trip. It was quite terrifying.