park, from whence to contemplate mighty London, here seen as
"a lion stretched out at his ease,
A sailor his keeper, his lair the green seas,"
was always delightful to him as associated with all that belonged to Arthur; and these amusements, together with short trips to his dear venerated grandsire and great aunt, made the first two months pass off very tolerably, but the third became very wearisome, for the Palmers were gone to Tunbridge. Arthur's last letter was of a very melancholy character, considering the elastic nature of the writer's mind, and there was no one to whom he could speak of it, no one of whom he could ask those questions the writer urged him to make, though with little hope of gaining reply for a very considerable period.
Besides, the weather grew bad, there was no riding in such abominable torrents as every now and then came on, and still more disheartening was the drizzling, dirty-looking rain, which defiled the streets instead of washing them. Foreigners, or persons who have resided in more equable climates, are always much annoyed by this species of downfall; they are accustomed to the cataracts of the rainy season, and can submit to it cheerfully, often gratefully, but the silent, sleety droppings of the demi saison affect even the best regulated tempers, and the most buoyant spirits. Books lose their charm because we are driven
