absolutely at the end of his resources, that an ‘angry fancy’ is all that is left to him.  Of course, under its influence he sits down and writes to the Times; but, if the humblest of its correspondents may venture to say so without offence, even that does not help him much.  That suicides increase in wet autumns is notorious; but that murders should in these sequestered vales maintain the even tenor of their way is a feather in the cap of human nature.  In lodgings, where the pent-up tourist has no one but his wife and family to speak to, where Dick and Tom will romp in his only sitting-room, and Eliza Jane practises all day on the crazy piano, this forbearance is especially creditable.

Even in hotels, however, there is great temptation.  On the north-eastern coast, in particular, when the weather has, as the phrase goes, ‘broken up,’ and the sky and sea have both become one durable drab, the best of women grow irritable, the men morose.  At the table d’hote, which even the most exclusive are driven to frequent for company, as sheep huddle together in storm, Dislike ripens to Hate with frightful rapidity.  Our neighbour, who always—­for it seems always—­gets the last of the mushrooms at breakfast, or finishes the oyster sauce at dinner before our very eyes, we are very far, indeed, from loving as ourselves.  Our vis-a-vis, the man on his honeymoon, is even still more offensive.  We resent his happiness, which is apparently uninfluenced by the state of the weather, and our wife wonders what he could have seen in that chit of a girl to attract his attention.  To ourselves she seems a great deal too good for him, and in our rare intervals of human feeling we regard her with the tenderest commiseration.  The importance attached to meals, and the time we take over them, have no parallel save among the Esquimaux.  The least incident that happens in the hotel is of more moment to us than the overthrow of Empires.  The whispered news that a fellow guest has been taken seriously ill, and that a medical consultation has been held upon the case, is a matter to be deplored, of course, but one which is not without its consolations.  ’Who is it?  What is it?  Nothing catching I do hope?’ (this last uttered with genuine anxiety) are questions that are heard on every side.  The general impression is that some lovely young lady of fashion on the drawing-room floor has been seized with pains in her limbs—­and no wonder—­from exposure to the elements.  Her mother comes down every morning and selects dainties for the sick-room from the public breakfast table; those who are near enough to do so inquire in dulcet tones, ‘How is your invalid this morning?’ The reply is, ‘Better, much better,’ which somehow falls short of expectation.  Even the most giddy and frivolous of girls has no excuse for frightening people for nothing.