for in November the days are short; and shut up in a warm room,
lighted by that household sun, a lamp, one feels through the long
evenings comfortably independent of the out-of-door tempests. But
though we may have, and did have, fires all through the dog-days,
there is no shutting out daylight; and sixteen hours of rain,
pattering against the windows and dripping from the eaves--sixteen
hours of rain, not merely audible, but visible for seven days in the
week--would be enough to exhaust the patience of Job or Grizzel;
especially if Job were a farmer, and Grizzel a country gentlewoman.
Never was known such a season! Hay swimming, cattle drowning, fruit
rotting, corn spoiling! and that naughty river, the Loddon, who
never can take Puff's advice, and 'keep between its banks,' running
about the country, fields, roads, gardens, and houses, like mad!
The weather would be talked of. Indeed, it was not easy to talk of
anything else. A friend of mine having occasion to write me a
letter, thought it worth abusing in rhyme, and bepommelled it
through three pages of Bath-guide verse; of which I subjoin a
specimen:--

'Aquarius surely REIGNS over the world,
And of late he his water-pot strangely has twirl'd;
Or he's taken a cullender up by mistake,
And unceasingly dips it in some mighty lake;
Though it is not in Lethe--for who can forget
The annoyance of getting most thoroughly wet?
It must be in the river called Styx, I declare,
For the moment it drizzles it makes the men swear.
"It did rain to-morrow," is growing good grammar;
Vauxhall and camp-stools have been brought to the hammer;
A pony-gondola is all I can keep,