The weather produces a lassitude which makes letter-writing difficult. Every now and then a bright, hot day occurs, but usually it rains as it has been raining for weeks past, and the sailor's phrase, “a dirty sky,” is the only one which describes the dull brown clouds and stagnant brown mists. The mercury hovers about 80°, the air is quite still, and stillness and heat together make one expect a thunderstorm, which never comes; but instead we have had a smart shock of earthquake, which seemed equally suitable to the weather. Everything is moist or sticky, boots mildew four hours after they have been blacked, writing-paper has to be dried near a charcoal brazier before it is used, soap jellifies, ink turns mouldy, appetite for solid food entirely fails, every one is more or less ailing. Sir Harry, much worn out, has gone to Hakone, Lady Parkes, who has been suffering from intermittent fever, has gone to Yokohama, and Mr. Chamberlain, the two children, “Rags,” and I, are all feeble. “Rags” takes very little notice of me when his own people are here, but now he is most attentive to me, lies by my chair, sleeps on my hearthrug at night, assumes a very cordial manner, and expects me to feed him and attend to his comfort.