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10 August.--The funeral of the poor sea captain today was most touching. Every boat in
the harbour seemed to be there, and the coffin was carried by captains all the way from
Tate Hill Pier up to the churchyard. Lucy came with me, and we went early to our old
seat, whilst the cortege of boats went up the river to the Viaduct and came down again.
We had a lovely view, and saw the procession nearly all the way. The poor fellow was
laid to rest near our seat so that we stood on it, when the time came and saw
everything.
Poor Lucy seemed much upset. She was restless and uneasy all the time, and I cannot
but think that her dreaming at night is telling on her. She is quite odd in one thing. She
will not admit to me that there is any cause for restlessness, or if there be, she does not
understand it herself.
There is an additional cause in that poor Mr. Swales was found dead this morning on
our seat, his neck being broken. He had evidently, as the doctor said, fallen back in the
seat in some sort of fright, for there was a look of fear and horror on his face that the
men said made them shudder. Poor dear old man! Lucy is so sweet and sensitive that
she feels influences more acutely than other people do. Just now she was quite upset
by a little thing which I did not much heed, though I am myself very fond of animals.
One of the men who came up here often to look for the boats was followed by his dog.
The dog is always with him. They are both quiet persons, and I never saw the man
angry, nor heard the dog bark. During the service the dog would not come to its master,
who was on the seat with us, but kept a few yards off, barking and howling. Its master
spoke to it gently, and then harshly, and then angrily. But it would neither come nor
cease to make a noise. It was in a fury, with its eyes savage, and all its hair bristling out
like a cat's tail when puss is on the war path. Finally the man too got angry, and jumped
down and kicked the dog, and then took it by the scruff of the neck and half dragged
and half threw it on the tombstone on which the seat is fixed. The moment it touched the
stone the poor thing began to tremble. It did not try to get away, but crouched down,
quivering and cowering, and was in such a pitiable state of terror that I tried, though
without effect, to comfort it.
Lucy was full of pity, too, but she did not attempt to touch the dog, but looked at it in an
agonised sort of way. I greatly fear that she is of too super sensitive a nature to go
through the world without trouble. She will be dreaming of this tonight, I am sure. The
whole agglomeration of things, the ship steered into port by a dead man, his attitude,
tied to the wheel with a crucifix and beads, the touching funeral, the dog, now furious
and now in terror, will all afford material for her dreams.
I think it will be best for her to go to bed tired out physically, so I shall take her for a
long walk by the cliffs to Robin Hood's Bay and back. She ought not to have much
inclination for sleep-walking then.