The great cloud which hung, not only over London, but over the whole of the British Isles¹ on the first day of the nineteenth century stayed, or rather, did not stay, for it was buffeted² about constantly by blustering³ gales⁴, long enough to have extraordinary consequences upon those who lived beneath its shadow. A change seemed to have come over the climate of England. Rain fell frequently, but only in fitful gusts⁶, which were no sooner over than they began again. The sun shone, of course, but it was so girt about with clouds and the air was so saturated⁷ with water, that its beams were discoloured and purples, oranges, and reds of a dull sort took the place of the more positive landscapes of the eighteenth century. Under this bruised⁹ and sullen¹⁰ canopy¹¹ the green of the cabbages was less intense, and the white of the snow was muddied. But what was worse, damp now began to make its way into every house — damp, which is the most insidious¹² of all enemies, for while the sun can be shut out by blinds, and the frost roasted by a hot fire, damp steals in while we sleep; damp is silent, imperceptible, ubiquitous. Damp swells¹³ the wood, furs the kettle, rusts¹⁵ the iron, rots the stone. So gradual is the process, that it is not until we pick up some chest of drawers, or coal

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