cal poetry, all in
the most exquisite English, in our language, sitting probably at Evans's
(it sounds like Evans's with the suppers and the music) and looking a
little pityingly at the reek about him like the "poor old, solitary, and
sad Man as he really was in spite of his Jokes"; and then imaging in his
mind's eye the handsome stalwart fisherman whom he loved so truly, and
believing that he was as morally excellent as he was physically! "What a
Face he would make at all this!" thought the poet.

Five or six years ago a good friend of mine, the skipper of one of the
most famous tugs of Yarmouth, had to go up to town on a salvage case
before the Admiralty Court. With him as witnesses went one or two beach
men of the old school, wind-and sun-tanned old shell-backs, with voices
like a fog-horn, and that entire lack of self-consciousness which is
characteristic of simplicity and good breeding. My friend the skipper
was cultured in comparison with the old beach men, and he was a little
vexed when one old "salwager" insisted on accompanying him to the Oxford
Music Hall. All went well till some conjurers appeared on the stage.
Then the skipper found that he had made a mistake in edging away from the
beach man. For that jolly old salt hailed him across the house. "Hi,
Billeeoh! Bill Berry! Hi! Lor, bor, howiver dew they dew't? Howiver
dew they dew't, bor? Tha'ss whoolly a masterpiece! Hi! Billeeoh! Theer
they goo agin!"

The skipper always ends the story there. He is as brave a man as any on
the coast. It was he who stood out in Yarmouth Roads all night to look
for the Caistor life-boat the night of the disaster--a night when the
roads could not be distinguished from the shoals, so broken into tossing
white horses was the whole offing--but I believe he slunk down the stairs
of the Oxford that night, and left the old beach man still expressing his
delighted wonder.

Perhaps FitzGerald thought that Posh would be as excited as the old beach
man.

"Mr. Berry" (as every one knows who knows anything about FitzGerald) was
the landlord of the house on Markethill, Woodbridge, where the poet
lodged. (By the way, he was, so far as I know, no relation of my Bill
Berry.) A sum of 50 pounds was due to Dan Fuller on the planking being
completed, and FitzGerald was anxious to let Posh have the money as soon
as it was needed. He "remembered his debts" even before they became due.

I have already stated that Hunt was a b