The prospects of the harvest are indeed dismal.  From all parts of the country are disheartening reports of the havoc wrought by the tremendous rains of the past week, and the worst of it is that there appears at present no likelihood of the cessation of the elemental hostilities in time to enable the crops to recover somewhat.

A vast quantity of ripe fruit, strawberries, raspberries, &c., have been spoiled beyond all hope, and gardeners tell us that the tree and wall fruit is not ripening, as indeed it cannot well do in the almost complete absence of sun.

Summer amusements, too, which ought to be in full swing now if ever, have all been upset.  People are afraid to make arrangements for going away to the seaside, or even for the simple picnic, on account of the eternal rain. The volunteer camp at Wimbledon has been turned into a perfect quagmire; the show of the Royal Agricultural Society - most unfortunate of societies - at Reading has had to be held in the midst of a morass, and everywhere there is desolation and wailing because the sun will not come out and shine upon us.

It is so long since we had what is called an old English summer, that one begins to doubt whether there ever were such summers at all as they have been described.

Certainly, at the present epoch, it appears as if something were all wrong with the seasons, for we had better weather in March than we have in this month of July - a month which, in the expressive language of MARK TWAIN, can only be called a "ghastly fraud upon the almanack".