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Chapter 9


Two New England consciences--Inexhaustible faith and energy--Deep and
abiding love of England--"How the Water Comes Down at Lodore"--"He
took an' he let go"--Naked mountains--The unsentimental little
quadruped--The human element in things sticks--The coasts of
England--A string of sleepy donkeys--Unutterable boy-thoughts--Grins
and chuckles like an ogress--Hideous maternal parody--The adorable
inverted bell-glass--Strange things happen in the world--An ominous
clouding of the water--Something the world has never
known--Overweening security--An admonition not to climb too high--How
vice may become virtue by repetition--Corporal Blair's
chest--Black-Bottle Cardigan--Called to Lisbon.

--

Emerson, as a matter of principle, was rather averse from travel,
though he made the trip to England twice; but he fortified his theory
by his practice of searching out great men rather than historic or
picturesque places. Ruskin's Modern Painters had not been written when
Emerson first left home, and I doubt if he read it at any time. He
found his mountain scenery in Carlyle and his lakes and vales
elsewhere among agreeable people. My father's conscience worked in a
different way; he thought himself under obligations to see whatever in
the way of towns, ruins, cathedrals, and scenery was accounted worthy
a foreigner's attention; but I think he would have enjoyed seeing them
much more had that feeling of obligation not been imposed upon him.
Set sights, as he often remarked, wearied him, just because they were
set; things that he happened upon unpremeditatedly, especially if they
were not described in guide-books, pleased him more and tired him
less. It can hardly be affirmed, however, that he would have missed
the set sights if he could have done so, and no doubt he was glad,
after the job was done, that he had done it. And he was greatly helped
along by the inexhaustible faith and energy in such matters of his
wife; she shrank from no enterprise, and seemed always in precisely
the right mood to appreciate whatever she beheld. She could go day
after day to a picture-gallery, and stay all day long; she would make
herself as familiar with churches, castles, and cathedrals as she was
with her own house; she would wander interminably and delightedly
about old towns and cities, or gaze with never-waning joy upon lakes
and mountains, and my father, accompanying her, was, in a measure,
recuperated and strengthened by her enthusiasm. In the end, as is
evidenced by Our Old Home and The Marble Faun, he got a good deal out
of Europe. On the other hand, he seemed to think himself justified in
avoiding persons as much as he decently might, even the most
distinguished; and if he had not been a consul, and a writer of books
that had been read, I doubt if he would have formed any acquaintances
during his foreign residence, and he would thereby have missed one of
the greatest and most enduring pleasures of memory that he took back
with him. For no one cared more for a friend, or was more stimulated
and emancipated by one, than he. It may have been that he had passed
the age of youthful buoyancy, of appetite for novelties; that he had
begun to lack initiative. "I have seen many specimens of mankind," he
wrote down, in a mood of depression, in one of his note-books, "but
come to the conclusion that there is little variety among them all."
That was scarcely a full thought, and he would never have let it pass
in one of his considered books. He made and published many other
remarks on similar subjects of quite an opposite tenor, and these more
truly represented his true feeling. But he did flag a little, once in
a while, and the deep and abiding love of England which was his final
sentiment had somewhat the appearance of having been forced upon him
against his inclination. We may surmise that he feared disappointment
more than he craved gratification.

From Liverpool we explored the strangeness of the land in all
directions. Bennoch or Bright sometimes took off my father alone;
sometimes my father and mother would go with me, leaving my sisters at
home with the governess. Once in a while we all went together, as, for
example, to the Isle of Man or to Rhyl. So far as practicable, we
children were made acquainted with the literature of places we were to
visit before going there. Thus, before journeying to the Lakes and
Scotland, I had by heart a good deal of Wordsworth, Southey, Burns,
and Walter Scott, and was able, standing amid the lovely uproar of
Lodore, to shout out the story of how the water comes down there; and,
again, on the shores of Loch Katrine, at sunset, after spending a long
hour on the little white beach opposite Ellen's Isle, I ran along the
road in advance of my parents, and, climbing a cliff, saw the breadth
of the lake below me, golden under the sunset clouds, and very aptly
recited, as they came up, Sir Walter's descriptive verse:


"One burnished sheet of living gold,
Loch Katrine lay, beneath him rolled!"

But I was not always so well attuned to the environment. I had got
hold of a hook and line at some hotel on the Lakes, and the old
passion for fishing, which had remained latent since Lenox days for
lack of opportunity, returned upon me with great virulence. So, one
day, when we had set out in a row-boat to visit Rob Roy's cave, I
requested, on arriving there, to be permitted to stay in the boat,
moored at the foot of the cliff, while the others climbed up into the
cave, and, as soon as they had disappeared, I pulled out my line, with
a dried-up worm on the hook, and cast it over the side. I wanted to
see the cave, but I wanted to catch a fish more. Up to that time, I
think, I had caught nothing in all our pilgrimages. If ever Providence
is going to give me success (I said to myself, devoutly), let it be
now! Accordingly, just before the others came back, I felt a strong
pull on my line and hauled in amain. In a moment the fish, which may
have been nine inches long, but which seemed to me leviathan himself,
broke the surface, wriggling this way and that vigorously; but that
was the extent to which my prayer was granted, for, in the words of a
rustic fisherman who related his own experience to me long afterwards,
"Just as I was a-goin' to land 'im, sir, he took an' he let go!" My
fish not only took and let go, but he carried off the hook with him.

I remember wandering with my father through a grassy old church-yard
in search of Wordsworth's grave, which we found at last, looking quite
as simple as his own most severely unadorned pastoral; but I had not
attained as yet to the region of sentiment which makes such things
impressive. The bare mountains, the blue lakes, and the gray ruins
filled me with riotous intoxication. The North of England and Scotch
mountains were much more effective in their nakedness than the wooded
hills I had seen in Berkshire of Massachusetts, and their contours
were more sharply modelled and various. They were just large enough
to make their ascent seem easy until you undertook it, then those
seemingly moderate slopes lengthened out unaccountably. The day we
reached the hotel at the base of Helvellyn, I started, nothing
doubting, to climb to its summit before supper; the weather was clear,
the top looked close at hand, and I felt great surprise that the young
gentleman mentioned in Scott's poem ("I climbed the dark brow of the
mighty Helvellyn," etc.) should have allowed himself to be lost. But
after a breathless struggle of fifteen or twenty minutes, finding
myself apparently no nearer my goal than at first, I thought
differently. Mr. Bright told my father, by-the-way, that the legend
of the fidelity of the dead adventurer's little dog, "who scared the
hill-fox and the raven away," was far from being in accordance with
the prosaic facts. This unsentimental little quadruped had, in truth,
eaten up a large part of her master by the time his remains were
discovered, and had, furthermore, brought into the world a litter of
pups. Well, nothing can deprive us of the poem; but it is wholesome to
face realities once in a while.

Unless one have a vein of Ruskin in him, one does not recollect
scenery, however enchanting, with the same particularity as persons.
It is the human element in things that sticks to us. Scenes are more
punctually recalled in proportion as they are steeped in historic or
personal interest. The thatched cottages of Burns and of Shakespeare
stand clear in my memory; I recall our ramble over the battlements of
Carlisle, where imprisoned Queen Mary had walked three centuries
before; I remember the dark stain on the floor of the dark room in
which one of her lovers was slain; I can see the gray towers of
Warwick rising above the green trees and reflected in the still water;
and, entering the keep of the castle, I behold myself again trying on
the ponderous helmet of the gigantic Guy, and climbing into his
monstrous porridge-pot. But vain would be the attempt to marshal
before my mind's eye the glorious pageantry of the Trosachs, though,
at the time of its actual revelation, it certainly seemed to make a
far more vivid impression. The delight and exhilaration which such
magnificence inspired are easily summoned back, but not the incarnate
features of them. Wild nature takes us out of ourselves and refreshes
us; but she does not reveal her secret to us, or ally herself with
anything in us less deep than the abstract soul--which also is beyond
our reach.

I am not sure that my father did not like the seaside sojourns as well
as anything else, apart from the historical connections; for the
spirits of many seafaring forefathers murmured in his heart. But he
did not so much care for the soft, yielding, brown sands on which the
sea-waves broke. The coasts to which he had been used in his youth
were either rocky or firm as a macadamized road. Nor was he beguiled
into forgetting the tedium of walking over them, as his companion was,
by the fascination of the shells and sea curiosities to be picked up
on them. Many a mile have I trotted along beside him or behind him,
gathering these treasures, while he strode forward, abstracted, with
his gaze fixed towards the long ridge of the horizon. The sands at
Rhyl, near which Milton's friend was said to have been lost, were like
a rolling prairie; at low tide the white fringe of the surf could
scarcely be descried at their outermost verge, yet within a few
hours it would come tumbling back, flowing in between the higher
levels, flooding and brimming and overcoming, till it broke at our
feet once more. Behind us rose the tumultuous curves and peaks of the
Welsh hills; before us, but invisible across the Irish Channel, the
black coast of rainy Ireland. One night, during a gale, a ship came
ashore, so far out that it still seemed, in the morning, to be at sea,
except for its motionlessness, and the drenched and draggled crew came
straggling in--or some of them. At Southport the beach was narrower
and the little sea-side settlement larger and livelier; a string of
sleepy donkeys always waited there, with the rout of ragged and
naughty little boys with sticks to thrash them into a perfunctory and
reluctant gallop for their riders. There was always one boy, larger
and also naughtier than the rest, who thrashed the thrashers and took
their pennies away from them. The prevailing occupation of the
children at these places, as on all civilized shores, apparently, was
the building of sand-mountains and the digging of pits with their
little wooden spades. One day an elderly gentleman, with a square,
ruddy face, edged with gray whiskers, who had stood observing my
labors in this kind for a long time, stepped up to me as I paused, and
said, with a sort of amused seriousness, "You'll do something when you
grow up, my little lad; your hill is bigger than any of the others'."
He nodded kindly to me and walked off, and I sat down beside my
mountain and watched the tide come up and level it, thinking
unutterable boy-thoughts.

The only approach to sea-side cliffs that we saw was at Whitby, on the
Yorkshire coast, where the abbey of St. Hilda stood, after whom the
American maiden in The Marble Faun was named. But the German Ocean was
bleak and cold, and my experiences in it were even more harrowing than
elsewhere; I can imagine nothing more dispiriting to a small boy than
to be dragged down over a harsh beach in an old-fashioned British
bathing-machine, its damp floor covered with gritty sand, with a tiny
window too high up for him to look out of; undressing in the cold
draughtiness and trying to hang up his clothes on pegs too high for
him to reach; being tossed from side to side, and forward and
backward, meanwhile, by the irregular jerking and swaying of the
dismal contrivance, drawn by the amphibious horses of the region;
until at last he hears the waves begin to dash against it, and it
comes to a pause in a depth which he feels must be fathomless. Then
comes a thumping at the door, and he knows that the bathing-woman is
hungrily awaiting his issuing forth. Nothing else is so terrible in
the world--nothing even in Alice in Wonderland--to a small, naked,
shivering boy as the British bathing-woman. There she stands,
waist-deep in the swelling brine; she grins and chuckles like an
ogress; her red, grasping hands stretch forth like the tentacles of an
octopus; she seizes her victim in an irresistible embrace, and with
horrid glee plunges him head-under the advancing wave. Ere he can
fetch his breath to scream, down again he goes, and yet again. The
frigid, heavy water stings his cowering body; he has swallowed quarts
of it; his foot has come in contact with a crab or a starfish; before
him rolls the tumultuous expanse of desolation, surging forward to
take his life; behind him are the rickety steps of the bathing-
machine, which, but now a chamber of torture, has become his
sole haven of refuge. Buffeted by the billows, he makes shift at last
frantically to clamber back into it; he snatches the small, damp
towels, and attempts to dry his shivering limbs; his clothes have
fallen on the wet floor; he cannot force his blue toes into his oozy
socks. At the moment he is attempting to wriggle himself into his
trousers the horse is hitched-to again, and the jerky and jolty
journey back up the beach begins. If the hair of a boy of ten could
turn white in a single morning, there would be many a hoary-headed
youngster in British watering-places. John Leech, in Punch, used to
make pictures of the experiences I have outlined, and I studied them
with deep attention and sympathy. The artist, too, must have suffered
from the sea-ogresses in his youth, else he could not have portrayed
the outrage so vividly. The mock-cheerfulness and hideous maternal
parody of their "Come, my little man!" has no parallel in life or
fiction. Nevertheless, such is the fortunate recuperative faculty of
boyhood that day after day I would forget the horrors of that hour,
and be happy in climbing over the decayed chalk acclivities of Whitby,
picking up the fossil shells that nestle there. Yonder on my table, as
I write, lies a coiled ammonite found there; it had been there ten
thousand years or ages before I detached it from its bed, and, for
aught I know, my remotest posterity may use it, as I have done, for a
paper-weight. Thanks to eternal justice, the bathing-machines and the
bathing-women will have gone to their place long ere then!

My father had given me a book called The Aquarium, written by Philip
Henry Gosse (father of the present poet, essayist, and critic),
illustrated with pictures of sea-anemones and other marine creatures
done from his own drawings in color, and so well done that nothing
which has been done since in the way of color-reproductions surpasses
them. It was delightfully written, and I absorbed it into my very
soul, and my dreams by night and longings by day were for an aquarium
of my own. At last--I think this was at Southport--a glass jar was
given me; it was an inverted bell-glass, mounted on a wooden stand,
and it cost ten shillings. I wonder if men often love their wives or
children with the adoring tenderness that I lavished upon that
bell-glass and its contents! I got sand and covered the bottom; I
found two jagged stones and leaned them against each other on the
sand; I gathered fronds of ulva latissima; I persuaded a boatman to
bring me a bucket of salt-water from beyond the line of breakers, and
I poured it carefully into the jar. During the next twenty-four hours
I waited impatiently for the water to settle and clear; then I began
to introduce the living inmates. I collected prawns and crabs and
sea-snails, and a tiny sole or two, a couple of inches long, and by
good chance I found a small sepiola, or cuttle-fish, as big as a
beetle, which burrowed in the sand and changed color magically from
dark brown to faintest buff. I also had a pair of soldier-crabs, which
fought each other continually. When the sunlight fell on my aquarium,
I saw the silver bubbles of oxygen form on the green fronds of the
sea-weed; the little snails crawled along the sides of the glass,
sweeping out their tiny, scythelike tongues at every step; the prawns
hovered in the shade of the stones or darted back and forward light as
thoughts; the soles scuffled over the surface of the sand or hid
themselves in it from the stalking, felonious crabs. But I had no
sea-anemones; they are not found on sandy coasts, and without
sea-anemones my felicity could not be complete.

But strange things happen in this world occasionally, good as well as
bad. There came up a heavy storm, and the next morning, walking with
my father on the beach, strewn with deep-sea flotsam and jetsam, we
came upon the mast of a ship, water-logged till it had the weight of
iron; it might have been, as my father remarked, a relic of the
Spanish Armada. And it was covered from end to end with the rarest and
most beautiful species of sea-anemones!

This was fairy-land come true. I chipped off a handkerchiefful of the
best specimens, wishing I could take them all, and carried them to my
aquarium. I deposited them, each in a coign of vantage, and in the
course of an hour or two they had swelled out their tinted bodies and
expanded their lovely tentacles, and the cup of my joy was full. This
prosperity continued for near a week, during which I remained with my
nose against the glass, as the street boys of Liverpool held theirs
against the windows of pastry-cooks' shops. At length I noticed an
ominous clouding of the water, which, as Mr. Gosse had forewarned me,
signified disaster of some sort, and, searching for the cause, I
finally discovered the body of the little sepiola, which had died
without being missed, and was contaminating with his decay the purity
of the aquarium. The water must be changed at once. I sent out the
servant for a fresh bucketful from the sea, while I poured the
polluted liquid from the jar.

Presently the bucket of water was brought in. It was unusually clear.
I filled the jar with it, and then, as bedtime was near, I left the
aquarium to settle down to business again. The next morning I hastened
to it in my night-gown, and was confronted by a ghastly spectacle. The
crabs lay dead on the bottom, stomachs upward; the prawns hung
lifeless and white from the rocks; the soldier-crabs were motionless,
half out of their shells; the sea-anemones had contracted themselves
into buttons, and most of them had dropped from their perches. Death
had been rampant during the night; but what could be the cause?

A sudden suspicion caused me to put a finger in the water and apply it
to my tongue. It was not salt-water at all, but had been taken fresh
from the cistern. That traitress servant-girl, to save her indolence a
few steps, had destroyed my aquarium!

I was too heart-broken to think of killing her; but she had killed
something in me which does not readily grow again. My trust in my
fellow-creatures was as shrunken and inanimate as the sea-anemones.
We left Southport soon after, and that was my last aquarium.

Let us turn to lighter matters. I accompanied my father and mother on
that pilgrimage to Old Boston which is described in Our Old Home. The
world does not know that it is to my presence on the little steamer on
the trip down the level river, through the Lincolnshire fens, with
nothing but the three-hundred-foot tower of St. Botolph's Church, in
the extreme distance, to relieve the tedium of a twenty-four-mile
journey made at the rate of never more than six miles per hour--it is
not known, I say, that to that circumstance is due my father's
description of the only incident which enlivened the way--the tragedy,
namely, of the duck family. For it was that tragedy which stood out
clearest in my memory, and when I learned, in Concord, that my father
was preparing his paper about Old Boston for the Atlantic Monthly, I
besought him to insert an account of the episode. The duck and her
five ducklings had probably seen the steamer many times before, and
had acquired a contempt for its rate of progression, imagining that it
would always be easy to escape from it. But, somehow, in their
overweening security, they lingered on this occasion a little too
long, and we succeeded in running them down. Even then, as my father
notes, it was only one of them that was carried under; but the shock
to the nerves of the other youngsters must have stunted their growth,
and the old bird cannot but have suffered tortures from anxiety and
remorse.

The sadness caused by this event, added to the chilliness of the
sea-wind which blew against us all the way down the river, rendered my
first impressions of the ancient town, which had given its name to the
one I was born in, somewhat gloomy. But the next morning it
brightened up, and our own spirits were correspondingly improved;
insomuch that I struck my head a violent blow against the stone roof
of the topmost pinnacle of St. Botolph's tower, such was the zeal of
my ascent into it. All this happened two years after the aquarium, in
1857, when I was older and wiser, but had not yet outgrown the
ambition to climb to the top of all high places; this bump may have
been an admonition not to climb too high. We went down and strayed
into Mr. Porter's little book-shop, and he transformed himself into a
new and more genial proprietor of a virtuoso's collection, and showed
us treasures, some of which his predecessor in Mosses from an Old
Manse might not have despised. I have never since then heard of his
portrait in crayon of the youthful Sterne; it would be worth a good
deal to any latter-day publisher of his works in a de luxe edition. As
for the green tassel from the bed of Queen Mary, in Holyrood House,
there is a passage in my father's description of it in his journal
which, out of regard, doubtless, for the feelings of Mr. Porter, he
forbore to quote in his published article; but as the good old
gentleman (unless he has lived to be more than one hundred and twenty
years old) must have gone to the place where treasures are
indestructible, I will reproduce it now. "This tassel," says my
father, "Mr. Porter told us (with a quiet chuckle and humorous
self-gratulation), he had personally stolen, and really, for my part,
though I hope I would not have done it myself, I thought it no sin in
him--such valuables being attracted by a natural magnetism towards
such a man. He obeys, in stealing them, a higher law than he breaks. I
should like to know precisely what portion of his rich and rare
collection he has obtained in a similar manner. But far be it from me
to speak unkindly or sneeringly of the good man; for he showed us
great kindness, and obliged us so much the more by being greatly and
evidently pleased with the trouble that he took on our behalf." It may
be added that each new stealing enhances the value of all the previous
ones, and therefore creates an obligation to steal yet more. Thus
does an act which would, standing by itself, be criminal, become a
virtue if often enough repeated.

I am not arranging this narrative in chronological sequence; but I
think it was in this year that we went to Manchester to see the
exposition. The town itself was unlovely; but, as we had Italy in
prospect, it was deemed expedient to accustom ourselves in some
measure to the companionship of works of art, and the exhibition
professed to contain an exceptionally fine and catholic collection of
them. My father made a thorough study of them, going to learn and not
to judge, and he learned much, though not quite to believe in Turner
or to like the old masters. For my own part, when not taken on these
expeditions, I busied myself with the building of a kite six feet
high, of engineer's cambric, with a face painted on it, and used to go
out and fly it on a vacant lot in the rear of our lodgings,
accompanied by a large portion of the unoccupied population of
Manchester. The kite broke its string one day, and I saw it descend
over the roofs of a remote slum region towards the south, and I never
recaptured it. But my chief energies were devoted to acquiring the art
of fencing with the small-sword from one Corporal Blair, of the Fourth
Dragoon Guards--a regiment which had distinguished itself in the
Crimean War. The corporal was a magnificent-looking creature, and he
was as admirable inwardly as outwardly--the model of an English
non-commissioned officer. He used to come to our lodgings in his short
scarlet jacket and black trousers, and my father once asked him,
remarking the extraordinary prominence of his chest, what kind of
padding was used to produce so impressive a contour. "There's nothing
here but my linen, sir," answered the corporal, modestly, and blushing
a good deal; a fact which I, having often taken my lessons at the
barracks, in the private quarters of the corporal, where he permitted
himself to appear in his shirt-sleeves, already knew. My experience of
the British army not being so large as that of some other persons, I
am unable to say whether there were many other soldiers in it fit to
be compared with Blair; but my acquaintance with mankind in general
would lead me to infer that there could not have been then, and that
there are still less of such to-day. An army of six--footers like him,
with his intelligence, instincts of discipline, capacity and
expertness, physical strength and activity, and personal courage,
would easily account for more than all of England's warlike renown and
success; the puzzle is, how to account for anything but disaster
without them--though, to be sure, other armies might be equally
lacking in Blairs. He was well educated, modest, and moral; he was a
married man, with a wife who was the model of a soldier's consort, and
two or three little sons, all of them experts with the foils and the
broadsword. It was against the regulations of the service for
privates or non-commissioned officers to have families, and, when
Blair's connubial condition became known to the authorities, he was
degraded in rank from sergeant to corporal, though he wore the
Balaklava medal; for he had taken part in that immortal charge, and I
only wish I could recall the story of it as he told it to me. His
regiment had been under the command of Lord Cardigan--"Black-Bottle
Cardigan," as he was nicknamed in the army, on account of the
well-known (real or apocryphal) incident. It was my good--fortune,
by-the-way, once to see this eminent captain. I was taking my lesson
at the barracks, when Blair told me that his lordship was expected to
visit them that afternoon. The hour appointed was three o'clock.
Punctually at three o'clock a carriage drove rapidly through the gates
of the barracks, and the guard turned out on the run and lined up to
salute the noble occupant. But, much to their disgust, the occupant
turned out to be some one else, not meriting a salute. The men
returned to the guard-room feeling as men do when they have been
betrayed into exertion and enthusiasm for nothing. However, in about
ten minutes more, another carriage drove up, and out came the guard
again and ranged themselves smartly, to please the eye of their
martinet commander, when lo! they had again been deceived. Again they
retired with dark looks, not being at all in a mood to recognize the
humor of the situation. This same thing actually occurred twice more,
by which time it was near four o'clock, and the men were wellnigh
mutinous, and it became evident that, for some reason, Cardigan had
been prevented from coming. Such being the case, the approach of still
another carriage attracted no attention whatever, until it came to a
half-pause, and I saw, thrust out of the window, a stern, dark,
warlike, soldierly face, full of surprise and indignation--and this
was Cardigan himself. The unhappy guard tumbled over themselves in
vain efforts to get into form; it was too late, and the haughty and
hot-tempered commander drove on without his salute. Blair, not being
on guard duty, had no part in this catastrophe, but I well remember
his unaffected sorrow over it. He was a grave man, though of an
equable and cheerful temper, and he felt his comrades' misfortune as
his own. But I never heard that any casualties occurred in consequence
of the mishap.

I have left two years of our English sojourn unaccounted for. In the
summer of 1855, my father nearly made up his mind to resign his
consulship (since it had become hardly worth keeping from the money
point of view), and, after making a visit to Italy, going back to
Concord. This plan seemed the more advisable, because my mother's
lungs could not endure the English climate. But while he was weighing
the matter, John O'Sullivan wrote from Lisbon, urgently inviting my
mother and sisters to come out and spend a few months with him and his
family there. The Lisbon climate was a specific for bronchial disease;
my father could complete his term, and we could go to Italy the
following year. There was only one objection to this--it involved the
parting of my father from my mother, a thing which had never before
happened. But it did not take him long to decide that it would be a
good thing for her, and, therefore, in the long run, for him. Each
loved the other unselfishly, and had the courage of such love.
Liverpool without my mother would be a dismal trial for him to face;
Lisbon without my father would be tenfold an exile for her. But they
made up their minds, each for the other's sake, to undergo the
separation, and accordingly, in the autumn of the year, she and my
sisters sailed from Southampton, and my father and I went back to
Liverpool. How we fared there shall be told in the next chapter.

Julian Hawthorne

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