its petrified toad, is an irresistible temptation.  The great event of the day, however, is the wading down to the railway-station (which is in a quagmire) to meet the express train which brings more victims, ‘unconscious of their doom,’ to Barecliff, and who evidently flatter themselves that the pouring rain is an exceptional phenomenon; it also brings the London newspapers, for which we fight and struggle (the demand being greatly in excess of the supply) and think ourselves fortunate if we secure a supplement.  It is true there is a Times in the smoking-room of the hotel, but it is always engaged five deep, is the cause of terrible quarrels, and every afternoon we expect to see it imbrued in gore.

In the evening, when one does not mind the wet so much—­’its tooth is not so keen because it is not seen’—­there are dissipations at ’the Rooms by the Sea.’  Amateur charitable concerts are given there, in which it is whispered that this and that lady at the table d’hote will take part, who become public characters and objects of immense interest in consequence.  Thither, too, come ‘the inimitable Jones,’ from the Edgware Road Music Hall, with his ’unrivalled repertoire of comic songs;’ the Spring Board Family, who have been ’pronounced by the general consensus of the medical faculty in London to be unique,’ as having neither joints nor backbone; and Herr von Deft, ’who will repeat the same astounding performances which have electrified the reigning families of Europe.’  The serious people (for whom ’the glee-singers of Mesopotamia’ are also suspected of dropping a line) are angled for by white-cravatted lecturers, who enhance their statistics of conversion by the exhibition of poisoned arrows, and of clubs, on which, with the microscope, may be detected the hairs of missionary martyrs.  In fine weather, of course, these attractions would be advertised in vain; but the fact is, our whole community has been reduced by the cruelty of the elements to a sort of second childhood; the rain which permeates everything is softening our brain.

This is only too evident from the conversation in the hotel porch where the men meet every morning to discuss the topic of the day—­the weather.  A sullen gloom pervades them—­the first symptom of mental aberration.  Those, on the other hand, who express their opinion that it ‘really seems to be clearing a little’ are in more advanced stages.  We who are less afflicted shake our heads, and murmur painfully, but also with a considerable touch of contempt, ‘Poor fellows!’

The piano in the ladies’ drawing-room is always going, but it excites no soothing influence; there is an impression in the hotel that the performers are foreigners, and should be discouraged.  But there is one instrument hanging in the hall on which everyone plays, native or alien, and every note is discord.  It is the barometer.  People talk of the delicacy of scientific instruments; if they are right, the shocks which that barometer survives