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The other day, in looking over my papers, I found in my desk the following copy of a letter, sent by me a year since to an old school acquaintance: ...
All true histories contain instruction; though, in some, the treasure may be hard to find, and when found, so trivial in quantity, that the dry, shrivelled kernel scarcely compensates for the trouble of cracking the nut.
My godmother lived in a handsome house in the clean and ancient town of Bretton.
1801—I have just returned from a visit to my landlord—the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with.
There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.
You must go back with me to the autumn of 1827.
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
Of late years an abundant shower of curates has fallen upon the north of England: they lie very thick on the hills; every parish has one or more of them; they are young enough to be very active, and ought to be doing a great deal of good.