I have been at the seaside--enjoying it, yes, but in what a doddering,
senile sort of way! Is it I who used to drink the strong wind like wine,
who ran exultingly along the wet sands and leapt from rock to rock,
barefoot, on the slippery seaweed, who breasted the swelling breaker, and
shouted with joy as it buried me in gleaming foam? At the seaside I knew
no such thing as bad weather; there were but changes of eager mood and
full-blooded life. Now, if the breeze blow too roughly, if there come a
pelting shower, I must look for shelter, and sit with my cloak about me.
It is but a new reminder that I do best to stay at home, travelling only
in reminiscence.
At Weymouth I enjoyed a hearty laugh, one of the good things not easy to
get after middle age. There was a notice of steamboats which ply along
the coast, steamboats recommended to the public as being "_replete with
lavatories and a ladies' saloon_." Think how many people read this
without a chuckle!