He is a good
man, and much better expressed by his real name, Procter, than by his
poetical one, Barry Cornwall. . . . . He took my hand in both of his at
parting. . . . .
June 17th.--At eleven, at this season (and how much longer I know not),
there is still a twilight. If we could only have such dry, deliciously
warm evenings as we used to have in our own land, what enjoyment there
might be in these interminable twilights! But here we close the
window-shutters, and make ourselves cosey by a coal-fire.
All three of the children, and, I think, my wife and myself, are going
through the hooping-cough. The east-wind of this season and region is
most horrible. There have been no really warm days; for though the
sunshine is sometimes hot, there is never any diffused heat throughout
the air. On passing from the sunshine into the shade, we immediately
feel too cool.
June 20th.--The vagabond musicians about town are very numerous. On
board the steam ferry-boats, I have heretofore spoken of them. They
infest them from May to November, for very little gain apparently. A
shilling a day per man must be the utmost of their emolument. It is
rather sad to see somewhat respectable old men engaged in this way, with
two or three younger associates. Their instruments look much the worse
for wear, and even my unmusical ear can distinguish more discord than
harmony. They appear to be a very quiet and harmless people.
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