In 1853 my mother was much troubled with a gouty thumb. It prevented her playing, and she was forced to write with her left hand. Fortunately, she was left-handed, and could do this fairly well, though Fanny Allen asks what has become of her pretty writing. She consulted Sir Benjamin Brodie, but nothing ever did it any good, and for the rest of her life she was troubled with it at intervals.

We had an unusually dissipated summer. We all went to Eastbourne on July 14th. The weather was very blustery and there are entries “wind and storm,” “horrid cold wind,” in her diary. Lizzy (as my sister Bessy was then called) and I had flapping leghorn hats, which always stood upright or flapped over our eyes, so little cottage bonnets were bought for us. We stayed at Eastbourne till Aug. 4th, and on Aug, 13th, my father and mother went to The Hermitage (the Harry Wedgwoods’ house near Woking) for the sake of seeing the Camp at Chobham, taking with them my brother George and me. I well remember my father's intense enjoyment of the whole experience and the glow of sharing in it. Admiral Sulivan, his old shipmate on board the Beagle, showed us about and greatly added to our pleasure. My brother George spent his childhood playing soldiers, which was carried out with his usual thoroughness and energy, and the delight of the Camp must have been even greater to him than to me, who look back upon it as an extraordinarily delightful and unique experience, still fresh in my memory although it is fifty years ago.