In the name of sacred Phrenology, & yourself, Mr. Robert Childs, and every thing else that is sacred and laughable, & wonderful, to a poor half daft body like me, what can you assign to me as a reason--the reason is another thing--but I ask what will you give as a reason, you thief of the world and me, for taking off, and causing one to leave behind, & yourself detaining, withholding, & keeping, my head and ears, face and features, & the appurtenances thereof & thereto belonging or appertaining? answer me that, and get out of it as you can, if it is in your power, without forfeiting your honor, & standing naked before me, as you would do if you got up in the morning in my presence, without your breeches, like a snake that has crawled through a bush & left his skin behind him, & works his way tenderly over the young green grass, reptile as he is, while its growing for the food of the innocent beasts that perish after the manner of yourself working among the harmless printing types, as they would be, if it was not for your changing them about into skimble skamble stuff, & perplexing the heads of the people with knowledge and sorrow--knowledge today, & sorrow tomorrow--totheration Botheration! I say, where's my head? Am I to go about everlastingly, as I have gone for the last two months, with people asking me where's my head, & they know you've got it, & I know you've got it, & I have not got it myself, & the craters laughing at me for a fool, as I am, & you made me so, and I want to know why? What have you done with it? What did you want it for? What do you want it for? What are you folio 353b going to do with it? What right have you to it? Is not it my head, & not yours? And is not your own enough for you? Have you no respect for the head-hitter of the "Year Book"? Don't you know you are only just outside of his rapper, and if he gets you within, the better for him & the worse for yourself, & your brother perhaps? It is not Christmas yet, & what care I for turkey, or Turks like you? And, for aught I know, my head may be stuck up at your door, for the pigs to look at, like the heads at the gate of the great Turk's palace upon poles. And there's the poor crreatures in Poland, half of them, perhaps, by this time, without their heads--al taken off by barbarians, like you, with bumps of destructiveness--or blown away at the cannons mouth, as I may be, some day, in a hard winter, from the top of a stage-coach, going somewhere to increase my means of living, & so meeting with my death.
Now I have it!--I have it! May you not feel another bump, if you are not keeping my head till I'm dead! But I'll be up with you. I'll be down upon you--Down at Bungay will I be, as sure as my head's my own, & I live to reach the place--or I'll bring an action in [one word][?], or, file a bill of discovery & get you into Chancery, & recover my head--or get an order to have it referred to the master to take an account of the bumps, & report the proceeds or an interlocutory judgment for the profits to be paid to the Accountant General, with interest, and I'll ruin you with costs--I'll proceed Informer Pauperus -- make your brother a co-defendant, & work at that same Treasury check he would not let me see in his breeches pocket, buttoned up, which he got out of our present finance ministers, & could not have got from the others, for flabbergasting at the Come at he for parliamentary printing--that way your brother--why don't you get his head?