er to my successor, and marked
it as one "requiring attention." I have no doubt it will receive it.

With reference to your letter bearing date on the 8th of last October,
let me assure you that I have delayed answering it--not because a
constant stream of similar epistles has rendered me callous to the
anxieties of a beginner, in those doubtful paths in which I walk
myself--but because you ask me to do that which I would scarce do, of my
own unsupported opinion, for my own child, supposing I had one old
enough to require such a service. To suppose that I could gravely take
upon myself the responsibility of withdrawing you from pursuits you have
already undertaken, or urging you on in a most uncertain and hazardous
course of life, is really a compliment to my judgment and inflexibility
which I cannot recognize and do not deserve (or desire). I hoped that a
little reflection would show you how impossible it is that I could be
expected to enter upon a task of so much delicacy, but as you have
written to me since, and called (unfortunately at a period when I am
obliged to seclude myself from all comers), I am compelled at last to
tell you that I can do nothing of the kind.

If it be any satisfaction to you to know that I have read what you sent
me, and read it with great pleasure, though, as you treat of local
matters, I am necessarily in the dark here and there, I can give you the
assurance very sincerely. With this, and many thanks to you for your
obliging expressions towards myself,

I am, Sir,
Your very obedient Servant.

[Sidenote: Mr. J. P. Harley.]

DOUGHTY STREET, _Thursday Morning._[8]

MY DEAR HARLEY,

This is my birthday. Many happy returns of the day to you and me.

I took it into my head yesterday to get up an impromptu dinner on this
auspicious occasion--only my own folks, Leigh Hunt, Ainsworth, and
Forster. I know you can't dine here in consequence of the tempestuous
weather on the Covent Garden shores, but if you will come in when you
have done Trinculizing, you will delight me greatly, and add in no
inconsiderable degree to the "conviviality" of the meeting.

Lord bless my soul! Twenty-seven years old. Who'd have thought it? I
_never_ did!

But I grow sentimental.

Always yours truly.

[Sidenote: Mr. Edward Chapman.]