[Manchester—Monday, 23 July 1866]
Monday morning opened in rain notwithstanding Jamie and Bessie went to town by the early train barely getting away because the wagon was late. Sat at home writing and reading with nothing to disturb the quiet but the chirping of the hens, the call of the ducks and at times a bird.
The rain fell heavily all day; towards night however it stopped sufficiently for us to sally to the beach and thence to the station. The air was full of mist but the waves were turbulent and the tide rising. We stood forgetting to speak, forgetting everything but the wild fury of the distant seas as they washed the feet of the far desolate rocks until a wave came up and overwhelmed us. Lissie Bartol who was with me was wet almost to the knees but good india-rubber saved me—we retreated and walked the chill off on our way to Manchester. As we approached the small post-office we heard the poor French post-master who lost a leg in our war singing so loud that the whole village might hear first the Marseillaise and after ward Italian songs of patriotism. The battle of Custozza has stirred the Italians deeply. Defeat often stirs a nobility in our natures which success cannot excite but might well wish to rival.
