So does everything suffer a ‘sea-change.’ The modiste, whose pretty cap with its gay ribbons was itself an advertisement of her wares, has taken to a close bonnet and a woollen shawl--a metamorphosis as complete as is the misshapen mass of cloaks and mud-boots of the agile danseuse, who flitted between earth and air a few moments before. Even the doctor--and what a study is the doctor of a watering-place!--even he has laid by his smiles and his soft speeches, folded up in the same drawer with his black coat for the winter. He has not thrown physic to the dogs, because he is fond of sporting, and would not injure the poor beasts, but he has given it an _au revoir_; and as grouse come in with autumn, and black- cock in November, so does he feel chalybeates are in season on the first of May. Exchanging his cane for a Manton, and his mild whisper for a dog-whistle, he takes to the pursuit of the lower animals, leaving men for the warmer months. All this disconcerts one. You hate to be present at those _déménagements_, where the curtains are coming down, and the carpet is being taken up; where they are nailing canvas across pictures, and storing books into pantries. These smaller revolutions are all very detestable, and you gladly escape into some quiet and retired spot, and wait till the fussing be over. So felt I. Had I come a month later, this place would have suited me perfectly, but this process of human moulting is horrible to witness; and so, say I once more, _En route_. Like a Dutchman who took a run of three miles to jump over a hill, and then sat down tired at the foot of it, I flurried myself so completely in canvassing all the possible places I might, could, would, should, or ought to pass the winter in, that I actually took a fortnight to recover my energies before I could set out.