“Dear Madam,—I cannot write. I have half destroyed myself by writing. It does me more mischief than anything else. I must preserve myself, if for no other reason, for the two children. I had desired a friend to write to you. I suppose he has forgotten it. He is not in the way forme to inquire. She expressed a wish to have had you for a nurse. I wrote a letter to you for that purpose last Wednesday. But the medical attendants told me it was useless to send it. She died on Sunday morning at eight o’clock. She lasted longer than any one expected. She had Dr Fordyce, Dr Clarke, and Mr Carlisle, the last of whom, who is one of the best and greatest of men, sat with her the four last nights and days of her life. Mrs Fenwick, author of ‘Secrecy,’ a novel, was her principal nurse, and Mr Carlisle said, the best nurse he ever saw. Four of my male friends stayed night and day in the house, to be sent at a moment’s warning anywhere that should be necessary. I spent the principal part of my time in her chamber. I will desire Mrs Fenwick to write to you. If you have any inquiries to make, address them to her at my house.
“Believe me to be, with a deep sense of the affection my wife entertained for you,
“I find that the address I gave to my friend, Mr Basil Montagu, to write to you, was Mrs Cotton, near Henley-upon-Thames. He has despatched a letter with that address.”
