December 31st.--Thus far we have come through the winter, on this bleak
and blasty shore of the Irish Sea, where, perhaps, the drowned body of
Milton's friend Lycidas might have been washed ashore more than two
centuries ago. This would not be very likely, however, so wide a tract
of sands, never deeply covered by the tide, intervening betwixt us and
the sea. But it is an excessively windy place, especially here on the
Promenade; always a whistle and a howl,--always an eddying gust through
the corridors and chambers,--often a patter of hail or rain or snow
against the windows; and in the long evenings the sounds outside are very
much as if we were on shipboard in mid-ocean, with the waves dashing
against the vessel's sides. I go to town almost daily, starting at about
eleven, and reaching Southport again at a little past live; by which time
it is quite dark, and continues so till nearly eight in the morning.
Christmas time has been marked by few characteristics. For a week or two
previous to Christmas day, the newspapers contained rich details
respecting market-stalls and butchers' shops,--what magnificent carcasses
of prize oxen and sheep they displayed.
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