I received a letter from you with great pleasure, and if you know how bad a correspondent I am, this would be evidence of the fact—for I write you almost immediately. How could you conceive I forgot you—certainly, when we were together, "Our time, oh ye Muses, was happily spent." What! could I forget him who led me to the Camp-field, and there in drenching weather, explored inches below its surface—did we not toe up, and toe down, for Roman pottery in the mirey clay till we were half drenched, and having lost our feet might have lost our shoes and legs—can I forget friend Taplis's kindly cup of tea after that cold adventure, and his specimens from the site we had trodden in vain—or that you and I took counsel together over our cups in a Manchester Alehouse, whither you carried me for "good ale?"—I suspect it was the "Trafford Arms."
I have a distinct recollection of Mr. Taplis, poor man. He seemed a broken-spirited man, and though he let us see his leaves from Caxton, and other odd matters, his heart appeared to be from this world, and himself dead to it. To my eye, at that time, he was preparing for his journey home—and since then I have often thought of him, as awaiting his hour.
Your proffer of "other articles," in addition to the memoranda, I am obliged to you for, leads me to expect them. But why have you delayed till now—you will recollect that the Year Book concludes with the year—hasten then "local customs" to me without delay, or any thing else you may desire to see in print, or I cannot ensure insertion. What has come shall go in except the "Last shift." I studiously avoid vulgarities, or what refined people might so deem of. If the Year Book were for Antiquarians only I should give many curious things which from the general nature of the work I am constrained to omit. The Wakefield Monks I know not what to say to. Mr. Atkinson of your town had my most perfect matrice—I shall be happy in receiving what you write, as I am in your affording me an opportunity of saying that I do not & shall not forget you.