St Aubin’s, 14 August 1879 
Trafalgar Hotel 

Dear Frep, 

I am sending this note to your London address since—to go by 
your letter to my wife '’—there is no knowing that you will still 
belong to the population of Eastbourne after today.*”* 

Herewith letter from Hirsch to me,*” ditto letter from Louise 
Juta to Pumps. 

Our crossing from Southampton to Jersey** was made al- 
together too watery by a tremendous downpour of rain; we 
arrived dripping wet at St Hélier where it was also ‘pouring’ hard. 
Since then the weather, after occasional vacillations and transitions 
and set-backs, has been very good. The farmers in Jersey thought 

[QA: garble stripped 2026-06-23]

@ Jean Longuet 

the end of the world was at hand; they maintain that they’ve never 
had such a bad spring and summer. Tomorrow we are moving to 
the Hotel de l'Europe, St Hélier. We are leaving our present lodgings 
in St Aubin’s because Tussy and I cannot stand the monotonous 
daily fare of lamb or mutton in consequence of which I have, 
during the past few days, become an involuntary vegetarian. We 
could find nowhere else to stay—we spent a great deal of time 
hunting round—in these parts. When we arrived in Jersey, it was 
still comparatively empty, but as time went on there was 
immigration on a massive scale, notably of Frencuirs. When we 
made inquiries at the Hotel de Europe this morning, it so 
happened, fortunately for us, that 60 French people were just 
getting ready to leave, whereas on the other hand the steamers 
laden with fresh human scum had not yet come in. 

On leaving London from Waterloo Station, we met Harney, who 
was seeing his wife off to Jersey. Luckily she already had a first 
class ticker, whereas we were travelling second. On the soar we 
met again. Like us, she is not prone to sea sickness, but was in other 
respects unwell. On landing we again went our different ways, but 
‘she gave us the address of her brother with whom she is staying. 
Since then, we have paid a short visit of ‘condolence’. The woman 
is utterly impracticasie. Although a native of Jersey, she can provide 
no information other than what may be found in the Gummer. A 
good woman, but not just THE person for such as are travelling for 
recreation. I have been at long last sleeping properly here, only I 
have not quite shaken off a cold caught as a result of the 
abominable weather. But in this mild climate it will no doubt soon 
disappear of its own accord. Tussy att RIGHT. 

Two Derbyshire farmers, father and son, were until recently our 
companions at table in the Trafalgar Hotel. The day before 
yesterday they went on a sailing trip to St Malo and, having ‘been 
to France’ for the first time in their lives, returned with an 
immoderately inflated opinion of themselves. The father even felt 
hailf-inclined to go with his son on a trip to the Mediterranean, but 
thought it would be ‘too hot’ there. ‘By xo means,’ said his son, who 
is the book-learned man of the two, ‘By NO MEANS, THERE IT iS 
xow—wrnter!’ I was likewise informed by the old man (who is, by 
the by, in his prime and a sharp FELLOW, WITH THE TRUE BUSINESS EYE) that 
St Malo was situated on the south-west coast of France. On the 
other hand, both are well-versed in the sphere of agriculture and 
other FARMERS’ QUESTIONS. 

Tussy finds that bathing presents no difficulties worth mention- 
ing, and has so far been bathing alternately in St Brelade’s Bay 

and St Hélier’s Bay, and now alternately in the latter and St 
Clement's Bay. 

From my wife’s letter, I see that Schorlemeyer was ill when he 
arrived; I hope to have better news of him soon. 

Since my arrival here I haven’t looked at any newspapers, have 
read nothing at all save Carleton’s Traits and Stories of the Irish 
Peasantry, First volume. It was hard enough work, getting through 
the first volume; the second I shall save up for better times. They 
are UNCONNECTED TALES in which Irish peasant life is portrayed now 
from this angle now from that—hence not suitable for consump- 
tion all at one go. For that very reason it’s a book one ought to 
buy and own in order to regale oneself a fur et mesure,* now with 
one dish, now with another. Carleton is neither a good stylist nor a 
good compiler, but his originality consists in the fidelity of his 
descriptions. As the son of an Irish peasant, he knows his subject 
better than any Levers or Lovers. 

With kindest regards from Tussy and self to all of you 

Your 
Moor