Friday morning was all taken up with masters, and what with singing myself hoarse and drawing myself blind, and listening to Gin’s twanging and strumming her passages on the harp and piano till I was near deaf, I got finely tired by four o’clock, and settled myself on a great chair in my salon, reading “The Shipwreck,” a poem you perhaps know, by Falconer, a sailor, which I had long wished to read.