I have been going to write to you for a long time, but have always had
in my mind that you might come here with Lotty any day. As Lotty has
come without you, however (witness a tremendous rampaging and ravaging
now going on upstairs!), I despatch this note to say that I suppose you
have seen the announcement of "the" new weekly thing, and that if you
would ever write anything for it, you would please me better than I can
tell you. We hope to do some solid good, and we mean to be as cheery and
pleasant as we can. (And, putting our hands in our breeches pockets, we
say complacently, that our money is as good as Blackwood's any day in
the week.)
Now the murder's out!
Are you never coming to town any more? Must I come to Bonchurch? Am I
born (for the eight-and-thirtieth time) next Thursday, at half-past
five, and do you mean to say you are _not_ coming to dinner? Well, well,
I can always go over to Puseyism to spite my friends, and that's some
comfort.
Poor dear Jeffrey! I had heard from him but a few days, and the unopened
proof of No. 10 was lying on his table when he died. I believe I have
lost as affectionate a friend as I ever had, or ever shall have, in this
world.
Ever heartily yours, my dear White.
[Sidenote: Mr. Charles Knight.]