THAT HAS “SEEN ITS DAY.”

This is the nineteenth day that I have had my face glued to the window-pane watching for the promised “break” in the weather that is to enable me to get a little of the benefit of the sea-air of this place that my doctor assures me is “to do such wonders for me in a week that I shall not know myself.”  What it might do for me if I could only get hold of it, I can only guess, but the result of the persistent rain has been slowly but surely to empty the Grand Esplanade, the drawing and dining-room floors of which announce on colossal cards that the whole twenty-four establishments are “to let,” with the result that all the recreation that Torsington-on-Sea affords has formed a sort of conspiracy to drive me mad with amusement.

The trombone of the town band steals a march on the rest, commencing as early as eight o’clock in the morning with a very powerful rendering of “Il Balen,” who is succeeded in turn by the discarded Christy Minstrel with the damaged concertina.  Then comes a Professor in black velvet spangled tights, who insists, spite my shaking my head at him dolefully through the drizzling mist, in going through a drawing-room entertainment for the amusement and edification of a Telegraph-office Boy, who has apparently only one message to deliver, and it is to be presumed finds time hang in consequence a little heavily upon his hands.  Spite my menacing and almost fierce refusal to appear at my window, however, he has the hardihood to knock, and ask for a “trifle.”  This, if I could only ensure that he would devote it to the purchase of a place on the coach to Barminster, I would gladly give him; but knowing that it will only enable him to make an early breakfast of cold gin and bitters at the “Boar’s Head and Anchor,” I shake my fist at him, as much as to say, “I am feeble I admit, and do not, I dare say, look as if there were much fight in me!  But, by Jove! there is such a thing as the law, even, I suppose, at Torsington-on-Sea!  You had best not tempt me too far, my fine fellow.”

His reply to this is characteristic; at least, I think so.  For within twenty minutes the discarded Christy Minstrel, the Silvery-voiced Tenor, some performing dogs, the whole of the Town Band, the Man with the Bath-chair and general crowd of “loafers,” assemble opposite my dining-room windows, braving south-west wind (half a gale of it), and a general downpour, leaden sky, and indications of “being in” for “another day of it.”

I feel quite convinced that the Professor in velvet tights has rapidly whipped up the whole place with some such sentence as “No. 27 on the Grand Esplanade.  Give the Old Bloke there a taste.  He wants waking up a bit!”

I write to my Medical Adviser.  One day is much like another here, I cannot say I go forward very fast.  I admit the weather has been against me here; still, things might, I think, have been better.

Take this, for instance, as a typical day for an invalid.  It is hardly the sort of place to “pick up” in; at least, so it strikes me.