The Henson Journals

[81]

Friday, August 13th, 1920.

I worked again on the Lectures, but with no better result of my efforts. Whether it be that my mind is really jaded, or that the climate disinclines me to exertion, or that Baxter's self–diagnosed malady praematura senectus has befallen me, I know not, but the disconcerting fact cannot be disputed. I neither think with the vigour, nor write with the facility, nor read with the profit of an earlier stage in my career.

[After lunch we motored to Monk Hopton, on the way to Bridgnorth, in order to see the Wenlocks. We were fortunate in finding both of them at home. An Indian chaplain, named Padfield, was there. He turned out to be the son of that ridiculous old goose who was a curate in Bethnal Green when I was Head of the Oxford House. The poor creature still survives at a patriarchal age. We had tea and much pleasant talk. The journey home lay through very beautiful country, seen at its best in the level lights of a setting sun. We reached the Palace at 7.45 p.m.]

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