. . . Every year I have less and less desire to go to London: and now you
are not there I have one reason the less for going there. I want to
settle myself in some town--for good--for life! A pleasant country town,
a cathedral town perhaps! What sort of a place is Lichfield?
I say nothing about French Revolutions, which are too big for a little
letter. I think we shall all be in a war before the year; I know not how
else the French can keep peace at home but by quarrelling abroad. But
'come what come may.'
My old friend Major Moor died rather suddenly last Saturday: {235} and
this next Saturday is to be buried in the Church to which he used to take
me when I was a boy. He has not left a better man behind him.
BOULGE, _Friday_.