In
these long days, and long and pleasant ones, the promenade is at its
liveliest about nine o'clock, which is but just after sundown; and our
little R----- finds it difficult to go to sleep amid so much music as
comes to her ears from bassoon, bagpipe, organ, guitar, and now and then
a military band. One feature of the place is the sick and infirm people,
whom we see dragged along in bath-chairs, or dragging their own limbs
languidly; or sitting on benches; or meeting in the streets, and making
acquaintance on the strength of mutual maladies,--pale men leaning on
their ruddy wives; cripples, three or four together in a ring, and
planting their crutches in the centre. I don't remember whether I have
ever mentioned among the notabilities of Southport the Town Crier,--a
meek-looking old man, who sings out his messages in a most doleful tone,
as if he took his title in a literal sense, and were really going to cry,
or crying in the world's behalf; one other stroller, a foreigner with a
dog, shaggy round the head and shoulders, and closely shaven behind. The
poor little beast jumped through hoops, ran about on two legs of one
side, danced on its hind legs, or on its fore paws, with its hind ones
straight up in the air,--all the time keeping a watch on his master's
eye, and evidently mindful of many a beating.
June 25th.--The war-steamer Niagara came up the Mersey a few days since,
and day before yesterday Captain Hudson called at my office,--a somewhat
meagre, elderly gentleman, of simple and hearty manners and address,
having his purser, Mr.
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