LONDON, March 17th, 1867.
—Withering, shivering blast, drying up one's miserable throat and making one like a nutmeg-grater inside and out. Also a keen frost. I never could feel, with Dr. Watts, the pleasure of reflecting upon the "starving wretches," in contrast with my comfortable self on a night like this. It is almost maddening to think of anybody out-of-doors in tattered clothes ; and oh ! I wish it would rain seal-skins !
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