Certainly, no one would
have looked for a pugilist in this subdued old gentleman. He is now
Commissioner of Lunacy, and makes periodical circuits through the
country, attending to the business of his office. He is slightly deaf,
and this may be the cause of his unaccented utterance,--owing to his not
being able to regulate his voice exactly by his own ear. 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.
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