G. W. fears that he has been taken for a conjuror, and that a
serious conspiracy has been organised against him by his esteemed
Correspondents (to whose commands he is always happy to respond) and
the Post Office. But how is he to get on? He can only in the way of
business gratefully acknowledge the favours conferred on him--execute
orders--and do his best to reply in the smallest type and space in his
power--one column; and with four woodcuts, which would more than occupy
it without the illustrative letter-press, being before his eyes.