If there is one place, in the wide world, more dreary and disconsolate-looking than another, on a gusty evening in March, it is that part of Essex which lies some twenty miles to the north of the Thames, and is bordered nowhere, so far as the eye can reach, by anything but flat and desolate marshlands, and by swampy roads and fields. For there, all the contrary winds of Heaven seem to meet, to play a grand game of buffets with themselves, and everything else which rises an inch or two above the ground; there, the very sun, if he happen to have shown his face at all during the day, sinks more sullenly than anywhere else, as though disgusted with the prospect, and glad to get to bed; there, th…
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