The Henson Journals

[25]

Saturday, August 31st, 1901.

A dull morning tending to rain. The Post brought the Spectator for Reichel, & I read it for an hour: then was shaved by the ladies, and mouched about the city, for two hours. The market on a raft in the harbour is a busy & curious spectacle. Huge baskets full of repulsive, green, crawling cray–fish were everywhere on show: the fish were more noteworthy than the fruit & vegetables. I made my way to the English Church, & studied the notice–board, in the hope that there might be an early Celebration tomorrow: but I was disappointed: the unusual & perverse arrangement adopted in this Church allots the early Celebrations to the 2nd & 4th Sundays of the month. So my last hope of attending service disappears, for I cannot in cold blood subject myself to the frightful experience of last Sunday. So much for the practical worth of ecclesiastical theory!!

The afternoon we spent very pleasantly in an excursion by means of the steam–tram to [left blank]

The route lay through woods through which at intervals burst ravishing glimpses of the blue water. The place itself is delightful: &, as the weather cleared up, we got some wonderful effects of light and shadow. Returning, I fetched letters from the Post. There was one from Kirshbaum containing the dolorous news that Mrs Walter Hobhouse is dead. She is only 37 years old, & it seem but yesterday that I was sitting on the low stools in her drawing room joking over Irish ways. Peace be to her soul! She was a sweet & kindly woman, who had no mean burden of care, & bore it bravely. It is a crushing blow for poor Hobhouse.

After dinner we strolled round the quays. The moon, almost at the full, was brilliant, & the long lines of flickering lights reflected on the waters gave a weird aspect to the scene. It was an ideal night for sauntering & the light converse, which goes with it: but I had no mind for talk: the shadow of death was on me, & I could not resist it. Why should such be taken, & the useless left? "The economy of Heav'n is dark". I must write to Hobhouse, but what can I say which will seem anything more than the veriest commonplace of conventional condolence? "Tua voluntas fiat". It is a warning to me also: a reminder of the prosaic truth, familiar as the daylight & as unregarded, that my tenure of life is uncertain & feeble. "The night cometh when no man can work" & we are not consulted as to that advent. "So teach us to number our days that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom".

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