You will I hope have received a discreetly long letter from me—not long ago,—Murray has just written that Waite—is dead—poor fellow—he and Blake—both deceased—what is to become of our hair & teeth.—The hair is less to be minded—any body can cut hair—though not so well—but the mouth is a still more serious concern.——
Has he no Successor?—pray tell me the next best—for what am I to do for brushes & powder? And then the Children—only think—what will become of their jaws? Such men ought to be immortal—& not your stupid heroes—orators & poets.——
I am really so sorry—that I can’t think of anything else just now.—Besides I liked him with all his Coxcombry.——
Let me know what we are all to do,—& to whom we can have recourse without damage for our cleaning—scaling & powder.—
How do you get on with your affairs?—and how does every body get on.——
How is all your rabbit-warren of a family? I gave you an account of mine by last letter.—The Child Allegra is well—but the Monkey has got a cough—and the tame
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P.S.
Recollect about Waite’s Successor—why he was only married the other day—& now I don’t wonder so much that the poor man died of it.——
