_To the Editor._
_Rochester, Sept. 29, 1827._
Sir,--On the beach at Gravesend yesterday morning, I saw a gaily dressed
young female walking and fondling an infant in her arms, whom she called
Henry; with a fine, lively, bluff boy of about three years old running
before, who suddenly venturing to interrupt the gravity of a goat, by
tickling his beard with a switch, became in immediate danger of
over-punishment from the provoked animal. I ran to “the rescue,” and
received warm thanks for its achievement. After the manner of mothers
she kissed and scolded her “dear Lobski,” as she called the little
rogue; and I involuntarily and inquisitively repeated the appellation.
“Sir,” said she,--and she smiled--“it is perfectly ridiculous; but his
father and I so frequently give him that name in joke, that we sometimes
let it fall when in earnest--his _real Christian_ name is Robert.” I
laughed at the whim, shook hands with young “Lobski,” wished his mother
good morning, set off by the first conveyance to London, and wholly
forgot my little adventure.
----It was brought to my recollection this afternoon through an
incident on the roof of a stage-coach, by which I was travelling to
Rochester with several passengers; all of whom, except myself, alighted
at Gravesend. One of them, a Londoner, a young man of facetious remark,
let an expression or two fall, from whence I strongly suspected he was
the husband of Lobski’s mother. He had sat next to me at the back of the
coach, and had been particularly anxious respecting the safety of a
goose--whereon, as I learned, he anticipated to regale with his wife in
honour of Michaelmas. Being left to pursue the short remainder of my
journey alone, I was proceeding to change my place in the rear, for the
box-seat, when I perceived a letter, with the direction so obliterated
by friction, as to be undecipherable. There could not be a doubt that it
had escaped from my late fellow-traveller’s pocket; and as it seemed to
have been left to me as an _air_loom, I took the liberty to examine the
contents. It was from his wife; and in connection with my surmise, and
with my beach-story, it furnished the strongest presumptive evidence
that I had rightly conjectured his identity. He was an entire stranger
to the driver; and I am scarcely sorry that the absence of all clue to
his address at Gravesend, or in London, allows me a fair opportunity of
laying before the readers of the _Table Book_ a sprightly epistle, from
a mother who leaves her home in the metropolis to visit Gravesend, as a
watering place, with a couple of young children whom she loves, and with
the pleasure of expecting and receiving an occasional pop-visit from her
good man.