The conviction that I am walking in the New World is even yet marvellous in my own eyes, and I daresay it is little less so to you, the receiving a letter from a son of yours in such a quarter.
Believe me, my dear father, your most affectionate son.
The Beagle letters give ample proof of his strong love of home, and all connected with it, from his father down to Nancy, his old nurse, to whom he sometimes sends his love.
His delight in home-letters is shown in such passages as:—"But if you knew the glowing, unspeakable delight, which I felt at being certain that my father and all of you were well, only four months ago, you would not grudge the labour lost in keeping up the regular series of letters."
"You would be surprised to know how entirely the pleasure in arriving at a new place depends on letters."
"I saw the other day a vessel sail for England; it was quite dangerous to know how easily I might turn deserter. As for an English lady, I have almost forgotten what she is—something very angelic and good."
"I have just received a bundle more letters. I do not know how to thank you all sufficiently. One from Catherine, February 8th, another from Susan, March 3rd, together with notes from Caroline and from my father; give my best love to my father. I almost cried for pleasure at receiving it; it was very kind thinking of writing to me. My letters are both few, short, and stupid in return for all yours; but I always ease my conscience, by considering the Journal as a long letter."
Or again—his longing to return in words like these:—"It is too delightful to think that I shall see the leaves fall and hear the robin sing next autumn at Shrewsbury. My feelings are those of a school-boy to the smallest point; I doubt whether ever boy longed for his holidays as much as I do to see you all again. I am at present, although nearly half the world is between me and home, beginning to arrange what I shall do, where I shall go during the first week."
"No schoolboys ever sung the half-sentimental and half-jovial strain of 'dulce domum' with more fervour than we all feel inclined to do. But the whole subject of 'dulce domum,' and the delight of seeing one's friends, is most dangerous, it must infallibly make one very prosy or very boisterous. Oh, the degree to which I long to be once again living quietly with not one single novel object near me! No one can imagine it till he has been whirled round the world during five long years in a ten-gun brig."