_Gravesend, Thursday aft._
Dear Henry,--We arrived here after a very pleasant voyage in one of the
Calais steamers. Lobski, as usual, was, and is, quite at home. He really
appears to be the flower of Gravesend. He spars with all the sailors who
notice him, which are not a few--nods to the old women--halloes at the
boys, and runs off with their hoops--knocks at the windows with his
stick--hunts the fowls and pigs, because they run away from him--and
admires the goats, because they are something new. As we walk on the
beach he looks out for “_anoner_ great ship”--kisses the little
girls--thumps Mary--and torments me. The young ones in the road call him
“Cock Robin.” He is, _indeed_, what E. D. calls “a _tainted_ one.”
Upon first coming down I immediately commenced inquiries about the
bathing, and found some who talked of _mud-rubbing_. No one gave it such
a character as Mrs. E.--I met with a lady on the beach, who told me she
had brought a little boy of hers down last year to be _mud-rubbed_; but
after a month’s stay his legs were no way improved--she then _bathed_
him for a month, and the boy is a fine little fellow. I considered, as
_Lobski’s_ legs really brought us here, it was best to bathe him at
once; and accordingly paid 5_s._ 3_d._ for a month, otherwise it is
1_s._ each time. Since going in, which he took pretty well, considering
the instantaneous plunge, he calls to me when he looks at the sea,
“There is my _tub_, Ma.” He was rather frightened, and thought he fell
into the water, but not near so much, the guide says, as most children
are. Harry is getting fatter every day, and very jealous of Bob when
with me--but, out of doors, the little fellow glories in seeing Lobski
run on before. They grow very fond of each other.
Monday will be a grand day here in choosing the mayor, and at night a
mock election takes place, with fireworks, &c.--and this day month
Greenwich-fair is held in the fields. The people here are any thing but
sociable, and “keep themselves to themselves.” The sailors are the most
obliging, and very communicative--they usually carry Bob over any dirty
place or so for me--and, to tell the truth, I have almost changed my
mind from a parson to a sailor.
If you _can_, do come down on Sunday; but, by no means, empty-handed, or
rather, empty-pocketed--my cash is now very low, though I have been as
saving as possible. I find no alteration in the price of provisions
except potatoes and milk--every thing else I think is as in London. I
should like some pens, paper, and a book or two--for one, the Duchess
D’Orleans’ Court of Louis the XIV., I think it is--and any thing, as
poor Mrs. ---- says, _w_ery amusing; for the evenings are “cursedly”
dull--stop--it’s your own word--and as I have said it, it may relieve a
little of _this_ evening’s _ennui_. Whatever you bring you can put into
the little portmanteau, which I shall find very useful when we return.
Bob and Harry send you a kiss apiece, and mine “I will twist up in a
piece of paper, and bring with me when I come to town.”
This is a scribble--but Bob is asleep on my lap.