I gave her the letters in succession to seal, until exhausted by the effort—for now the least thing was too much for her—she fell back in her bed. She roused herself again, and said, "Now let's direct them: where is the one to the Queen? Write Victoria Regina—nothing else—in the middle. . . . . that will do very well. Whose is that?—the Speaker's: very well. I wonder if it is the brother I used to play driving horses with; for there were several brothers. Now, look for his address—James—ah! that's him: direct 'To the Right Hon. Speaker'. . . . .no, stop: put 'To the Right Hon. James Abercrombie, with three et ceteras, Carlton Gardens.'"
The next letter was the Duke of Wellington's. Lady Hester said, "Let me see—he's a field marshal—ah, never mind: you must begin—'To His Grace the Duke of Wellington, K.G.'" I accordingly did so, and, not knowing how much more was coming to complete the superscription, I put it all, for fear of wanting room, into one line. Her eye was on me as I wrote. "What's that?—show it me?" she cried out; and, taking the letter in her hands, she put on her spectacles. What an exclamation burst from her! "Good God, doctor! are you mad?—what can you mean?—what is this vulgar ignorance, not to know that 'His Grace' should be in one line, and 'The
