Dear Friends,—Here we are again in England, after
beating twice up and down the Channel, and getting as far as the Atlantic. What we
have suffered I will leave you to imagine, till you see my account of the voyage;
but we were never more inclined to think that “All’s well that ends
well,” and what we hoped we still hope, and are still prepared to venture
for. We arrived on Saturday, which was no post-day. Next day I wrote to my brother
and Miss Kent, and begged the latter to send
you news of our safety; for I was still exhausted with the fatigue and anxiety, and
I knew well that you would willingly wait another day for my handwriting when you
were sure of our welfare. I had hoped that this letter would reach you in the
middle of what I would reach in vain—your Christmas
festivities; so that a bit of my soul if not of my body, of my handwriting if not
my grasping hand, might come in at your parlour door and seem to join you as my
representative; but a horrid matter-of-fact woman at the Castle Inn here, who
proclaims the most unwelcome things in a voice hideously clear and indisputable,
says that a post takes two nights and a day. I hope, however, to hear from you, and
to write again, for the vessel has been strained by the bad weather, and must be
repaired a little, and the captain vows he will not go to sea again till the wind
is exquisitely fair. Above all, Dartmouth is his native place, and who shall say to
him, “Get up from your old friends and fireside, and quench yourself in a sea
fog?” Not I, by St. Vincent and
St. Sabilla, and King Arthur and Queen
Anastasia. I am sorry to say that the alarms which it is impossible
not to help feeling on such occasions have done no good to Mrs. Hunt’s malady, though when she was in
repose the sea air was evidently beneficial. For my part, I confess I was as rank a
coward many times as a father and husband who has seven of the best reasons for
cowardice can be; but Hope and Mutuality you know are my mottoes. And so, with all
sorts of blessings upon your heads, farewell, dear friends, till we hear from each
other again.—Stop! Here is
| 208 | RECOLLECTIONS OF WRITERS |
Remember me to the Lambs, to Mr. Clarke, to the Robertsons, etc.
