My dear Mrs. Clarke,—You must imagine that
all this time I have been endeavouring to regain my breath, taken away by your too
partial dedication. To find my name on such a page, and in such company, I feel
like a sacrilegious knave who has broken into a church and is making off with the
Communion plate. One thing is plain, Shakespeare had great obligations to you, but this last
inconsiderate act has certainly cancelled them all. I feel that I ought never to
speak or write again, but go down to the grave with my
| DOUGLAS JERROLD AND HIS LETTERS. | 287 |
The old year is dying with the dying fire whereat this is penned. That, however, you may have many, many happy years (though they can only add to the remorse for what you have done) is the sincere wish of yours truly (if you will not show the word to Clarke, I will say affectionately),
