morning at half-past ten—and the waves advance farther and farther on the sands, I attire myself in bathing costume, and thus go out into the sea, but before the great crowd assembles there, and let myself be washed over by the waves, most frequently having hold of Professor Hart's hand, sometimes in company with a lively Quaker lady, a niece of Lucretia Mott; sometimes also alone, for I have now become quite expert in wrestling with the waves, and in keeping my balance in them. One remains in the water about a quarter of an hour, and it feels so pleasant that one is quite sorry to come out. After this bathing, I go to my chamber, write a little whilst my hair dries, drink a glass of good ice-cold milk, with a piece of excellent wheaten bread, and then lie down on my bed for an hour, where, hushed by the great cradle-song of the sea, I fall asleep directly as lightly and pleasantly as, I imagine, little children slumber to their mother's lullaby.
When I wake, I dress myself quickly for dinner. The dinner hour is two, and a noisy scene it is! There sit, in a large light hall, at two tables, about three hundred persons, whilst a thundering band is playing, waited upon by a regiment of somewhat above forty negroes, who march in and manœuvre to the sound of a bell, and make as much noise as they possibly can make with dishes and plates and such-like things, and that is not a little. They come marching in two and two, each one carrying a dish or bowl in his hands. Ring! says a little bell held aloft by the steward, and the dish-bearers halt. Ring! says the little bell again, and they turn themselves to the table, each one standing immoveably in his place. Ring! And they scrape their feet forward on the floor with a shrill sound, which would make me ready to jump up, if the whole of their serving were not a succession of scraping and shrill sounds and clamour, so that it would be impossible to escape from their noisy sphere. The dinners
