“Good-night, dearie.”
“Good-night, darling papie.”
Chapter Twenty Seven.
Storm-Stayed at Brighton—Along the Coast and to Lyndhurst—The New Forest—Homewards through Hants.
“Dim coasts and cloud-like hills and shoreless ocean,
It seemed like omnipresence! God methought
Had built Himself a temple; the whole world
Seem’d imaged in its vast circumference.”
Coleridge.
“Rides and rambles, sports and farming,
Home the heart for ever warming;
Books and friends and ease;
Life must after all be charming,
Full of joys like these.”
Tupper.
I love Brighton, and if there were any probability of my ever “settling down,” as it is called, anywhere in this world before the final settling down, I would just as soon it should be in Brighton as in any place I know.
It is now the 13th of September, and the Wanderer has been storm-stayed here for days by equinoctial gales. She occupies a good situation, however, in a spacious walled enclosure, and although she has been rocking about like a gun-brig in Biscay Bay, she has not blown over.
As, owing to the high winds and stormy waves, digging on the sands, gathering shells, and other outdoor amusements have been denied us, we have tried to make up for it by visiting the theatre and spending long hours in the Aquarium.