trong character, clear
heads and genuine goodness," writes he, "are by no means wanting." And
long after: "The common people here dress better than in most parts of
England; and on Sundays, if the weather be at all fine, their appearance
is very pleasant. One sees them all round the Town, especially towards
Pendennis Castle, streaming in a succession of little groups, and
seeming for the most part really and quietly happy." On the whole he
reckoned himself lucky; and, so far as locality went, found this a
handsome shelter for the next two years of his life. Two years, and not
without an interruption; that was all. Here we have no continuing city;
he less than any of us! One other flight for shelter; and then it is
ended, and he has found an inexpugnable refuge. Let us trace his remote
footsteps, as we have opportunity:--

_To Dr. Symonds, Clifton_.

"_Falmouth, June 28th_, 1841.--Newman writes to me that he is gone to
the Rhine. I wish I were! And yet the only 'wish' at the bottom of my
heart, is to be able to work vigorously in my own way anywhere, were it
in some Circle of Dante's Inferno. This, however, is the secret of my
soul, which I disclose only to a few."

_To his Mother_.

"_Falmouth, July 6th_, 1841.--I have at last my own study made
comfortable; the carpet being now laid down, and most of my
appurtenances in tolerable order. By and by I shall, unless stopped by
illness, get myself together, and begin living an orderly life and
doing my daily task. I have swung a cot in my dressing-room; partly as
a convenience for myself, partly as a sort of memorial of my poor Uncle,
in whose cot in his dressing-room at Lisworney I remember to have slept
when a child. I have put a good large bookcase in my drawing-room, and
all the rest of my books fit very well into the study."

_To Mr. Carlyle_.

"_July 6th_.--No books have come in my way but Emerson's, which I value
full as much as you, though as yet I have read only some corners of
it. We have had an Election here, of the usual stamp; to me a droll
'realized Ideal,' after my late metrical adventures in that line. But
the oddest sign of the Times I know, is a cheap Translation of Strauss's
_Leben Jesu_, now publishing in numbers, and said to be circulating far
and wide. What does--or rather, what does not--this portend?"--

With the Poem called _The Election_, here alluded to, which had