“Dear Charlotte,—I address you by your new name, earnestly hoping it may be attended henceforth with more of prosperity than has been the case for a long while, and that it may be transmitted in your lineage. Every one speaks most rapturously of Mary Monica. Uncle Bob says—‘a splendid baby,’ and so on. I have seen nobody lately at all except your husband and William, who dined here yesterday, and both appeared in good health and appetite and spirits, and were, as usual, most agreeable company, in the evening both sleeping like tops from 8 to 10.30, when, with some difficulty, having read out my book and the candles being nearly done, I contrived to expel them. If your new house be like No. 36 (Mrs. Lane Fox’s), it is a very nice one; and I trust you will cultivate her society for the good of your soul.
“You see that William Alexander is dead. Boyd went over to Ballochmyle some days before, but never saw William in life, being forced to go to bed as soon as he got there. He had got home before the funeral, which Claud went down on Monday to superintend.”
