Speaking of Helvellyn, and the death of Charles Cough,
about whom Wordsworth and Scott have both sung, Mr. B------ mentioned a
version of that story which rather detracts from the character of the
faithful dog.
But somehow it lowers one's opinion of human nature itself, to be
compelled so to lower one's standard of a dog's nature. I don't intend
to believe the disparaging story, but it reminds me of the story of the
New-Zealander who was asked whether he loved a missionary who had been
laboring for his soul and those of his countrymen. "To be sure I loved
him. Why, I ate a piece of him for my breakfast this morning!"
For the last week or two I have passed my time between the hotel and the
Consulate, and a weary life it is, and one that leaves little of profit
behind it. I am sick to death of my office,--brutal captains and brutal
sailors; continual complaints of mutual wrong, which I have no power to
set right, and which, indeed, seem to have no right on either side; calls
of idleness or ceremony from my travelling countrymen, who seldom know
what they are in search of at the commencement of their tour, and never
have attained any desirable end at the close of it; beggars, cheats,
simpletons, unfortunates, so mixed up that it is impossible to
distinguish one from another, and so, in self-defence, the Consul
distrusts them all. . . . .
At the hotel, yesterday, there was a large company of factory people from
Preston, who marched up from the pier with a band of military music
playing before them.
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