hours every morning" he had brought it so far. This Piece, entitled
_The Election_, of which in due time we obtained perusal, and had to

give some judgment, proved to be in a new vein,--what might be called
the mock-heroic, or sentimental Hudibrastic, reminding one a little,

too, of Wieland's _Oberon_;--it had touches of true drollery combined
not ill with grave clear insight; showed spirit everywhere, and a

plainly improved power of execution. Our stingy verdict was to the
effect, "Better, but still not good enough:--why follow that sad

'metrical' course, climbing the loose sandhills, when you have a firm
path along the plain?" To Sterling himself it remained dubious

whether so slight a strain, new though it were, would suffice to
awaken the sleeping public; and the Piece was thrown away and taken up

again, at intervals; and the question, Publish or not publish? lay
many months undecided.

Meanwhile his own feeling was now set more and more towards Poetry;
and in spite of symptoms and dissuasions, and perverse prognostics of

outward wind and weather, he was rallying all his force for a
downright struggle with it; resolute to see which _was_ the stronger.

It must be owned, he takes his failures in the kindliest manner; and
goes along, bating no jot of heart or hope. Perhaps I should have

more admired this than I did! My dissuasions, in that case, might
have been fainter. But then my sincerity, which was all the use of my

poor counsel in assent or dissent, would have been less. He was now
furthermore busy with a _Tragedy of Strafford_, the theme of many

failures in Tragedy; planning it industriously in his head; eagerly
reading in _Whitlocke, Rushworth_ and the Puritan Books, to attain a

vesture and local habitation for it. Faithful assiduous studies I do
believe;--of which, knowing my stubbornrealism, and savage humor

towards singing by the Thespian or other methods, he told me little,
during his visits that summer.

The advance of the dark weather sent him adrift again; to Torquay, for
this winter: there, in his old Falmouth climate, he hoped to do

well;--and did, so far as well-doing was readily possible, in that sad
wandering way of life. However, be where he may, he tries to work

"two or three hours in the morning," were it even "with a lamp," in
bed, before the fires are lit; and so makes something of it. From

abundant Letters of his now before me, I glean these two or three
small glimpses; sufficient for our purpose at present. The general

date is "Tor, near Torquay:"--
_To Mrs. Charles Fox, Falmouth_.

_Tor, November 30th_, 1840.--I reached this place on Thursday; having,
after much hesitation, resolved to come here, at least for the next

three weeks,--with some obscure purpose of embarking, at the New Year,
from Falmouth for Malta, and so reaching Naples, which I have not

seen. There was also a doubt whether I should not, after Christmas,
bring my family here for the first four months of the year. All this,

however, is still doubtful. But for certain inhabitants of Falmouth
and its neighborhood, this place would be far more attractive than it.

But I have here also friends, whose kindness, like much that I met
with last winter, perpetually makes me wonder at the stock of

benignity in human nature. A brother of my friend Julius Hare, Marcus
by name, a Naval man, and though not a man of letters, full of sense

and knowledge, lives here in a beautiful place, with a most agreeable
and excellent wife, a daughter of Lord Stanley of Alderley. I had

hardly seen them before; but they are fraternizing with me, in a much
better than the Jacobin fashion; and one only feels ashamed at the

enormity of some people's good-nature. I am in a little rural sort of
lodging; and as comfortable as a solitaryoyster can expect to be."--

_To C. Barton_.
"_December 5th_.--This place is extremely" target="_blank" title="ad.极端地；非常地">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:
_'L' unica speranza di mia vita_.'--No doubt, as you say, our

Mechanical Age is necessary as a passage to something better; but, at
least, do not let us go back."--

At the New-year time, feeling unusually well, he returns to Clifton.
His plans, of course, were ever fluctuating; his movements were swift

and uncertain. Alas, his whole life, especially his winter-life, had
to be built as if on wavering drift-sand; nothing certain in it,

except if possible the "two or three hours of work" snatched from the
general whirlpool of the dubious four-and-twenty!

_To Dr. Carlyle_.
"_Clifton, January 10th_, 1841.--I stood the sharp frost at Torquay

with such entire impunity, that at last I took courage, and resolved
to return home. I have been here a week, in extreme cold; and have

suffered not at all; so that I hope, with care I may prosper in spite
of medical prognostics,--if you permit such profane language. I am

even able to work a good deal; and write for some hours every morning,
by dint of getting up early, which an Arnott stove in my study enables

me to do."--But at Clifton he cannot continue. Again, before long,
the rude weather has driven him Southward; the spring finds him in his

former haunts; doubtful as ever what to decide upon for the future;
but tending evidently towards a new change of residence for household

and self:--
_To W. Coningham, Esq_.

"_Penzance, April 19th_, 1841.--My little Boy and I have been
wandering about between Torquay and this place; and latterly have had

my Father for a few days with us,--he left us yesterday. In all
probability I shall endeavor to settle either at Torquay, at Falmouth,

or here; as it is pretty clear that I cannot stand the sharp air of
Clifton, and still less the London east-winds. Penzance is, on the

whole, a pleasant-looking, cheerful place; with a delightful mildness
of air, and a great appearance of comfort among the people: the view

of Mount's Bay is certainly a very noble one. Torquay would suit the
health of my Wife and Children better; or else I should be glad to

live here always, London and its neighborhood being
impracticable."--Such was his second wandering winter; enough to

render the prospect of a third at Clifton very uninviting.
With the Falmouth friends, young and old, his intercourse had

meanwhile continued cordial and frequent. The omens were pointing
towards that region at his next place of abode. Accordingly, in few

weeks hence, in the June of this Summer, 1841, his dubitations and
inquirings are again ended for a time; he has fixed upon a house in

Falmouth, and removed thither; bidding Clifton, and the regretful
Clifton friends, a kind farewell. This was the _fifth_ change of