some Apprentice had, he supposes, fixed them in without further inspection. There is such honesty and cheerfulness in Wright’s Saxon Eyes and Countenance when he faces such a charge as disarms all one’s wrath.”
“11 Marine Terrace, Lowestoft, July 17, ’65.
[‘Letters,’ p. 301.]
“. . . Yes, I sent Newson and Cooper home to the Shipwreck Dinner at Woodbridge, and supposing they would be maudlin on Saturday, gave them Sunday to repent on, and so have lost the only fine Days we have yet had for sailing. To-day is a dead Calm. ‘These are my Trials!’ as a fine Gentleman said to Wesley, when his Servant put rather too many Coals on the Fire.
“. . . Somehow, I always feel at home here,—partly that the place itself is very suited to me: I have known it these 40 years, particularly connected with my Sister Kerrich, whose Death has left a sort of sad interest shed over it. It was a mere Toss-up in 1860 whether I was to stay at Woodbridge, or come to reside here, when my residing would have been of some use to her then, and her Children now.
“Now then I am expecting my ‘Merry Men’ from Woodbridge, to get out my Billyboy, and get into what Sailors call the Doldrums, . . . ”
“3 Sion Hill, Ramsgate, August 25/65.
[‘Letters,’ p. 301.]
“I got here all right and very quick from our Harbour on Monday Morng. And here I shall be till Monday: then shall probably go with my Brother [Peter] to Dover and Calais: and so hope to be home by the middle or later part of next week. . . . To-day is going on a Regatta before the windows where I write: shall I never have done with these tiresome Regattas? And to-night the Harbour is to be captured after an obstinate defence by 36-pounders in a sham fight, so we shall go deaf to Bed. We had really a famous sail from Felixtow Ferry; getting out of it at 7 a.m., and being off Broadstairs (3 miles from here) as the clock on the shore struck twelve. After that we were an hour getting into this very Port, because of a strong Tide against us. . . .”
“11 Marine Terrace, Lowestoft, March 28, 1866.
[‘Letters,’ p. 303.]
“. . . The change has been of some use, I think, in brightening me. My long solitary habit of Life now begins to tell upon me, and I am got past the very cure which only could counteract it: Company or Society: of which I have lost the Taste too long to endure again. So, as I have made my Bed, I must lie in it—and die in it. . . .”