"_December 5th_.--This place is extremely small,much more so than Falmouth even;but pretty,cheerful,and very mild in climate.There are a great many villas in and about the little Town,having three or four reception-rooms,eight or ten bedrooms;and costing about fifteen hundred or two thousand pounds each,and occupied by persons spending a thousand or more pounds a year.If the Country would acknowledge my merits by the gift of one of these,I could prevail on myself to come and live here;which would be the best move for my health I could make in England;but,in the absence of any such expression of public feeling,it would come rather dear."--_To Mrs.Fox again_.
"_December 22d_.--By the way,did you ever read a Novel?If you ever mean to do so hereafter,let it be Miss Martineau's _Deerbrook_.It is really very striking;and parts of it are very true and very beautiful.It is not so true,or so thoroughly clear and harmonious,among delineations of English middle-class gentility,as Miss Austen's books,especially as _Pride and Prejudice_,which I think exquisite;but it is worth reading._The hour and the Man_is eloquent,but an absurd exaggeration.--I hold out so valorously against this Scandinavian weather,that I deserve to be ranked with Odin and Thor;and fancy I may go to live at Clifton or Drontheim.Have you had the same icy desolation as prevails here?"_To W.Coningham,Esq_.
"_December 28th_.--Looking back to him [a deceased Uncle,father of his correspondent],as I now very often do,I feel strongly,what the loss of other friends has also impressed on me,how much Death deepens our affection;and sharpens our regret for whatever has been even slightly amiss in our conduct towards those who are gone.What trifles then swell into painful importance;how we believe that,could the past be recalled,life would present no worthier,happier task,than that of so bearing ourselves towards those we love,that we might ever after find nothing but melodious tranquillity breathing about their graves!Yet,too often,I feel the difficulty of always practicing such mild wisdom towards those who are still left me.--You will wonder less at my rambling off in this way,when I tell you that my little lodging is close to a picturesque old Church and Churchyard,where,every day,I brush past a tombstone,recording that an Italian,of Manferrato,has buried there a girl of sixteen,his only daughter: